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THE ARCHBISHOP AND 

THE LADY 

( 

[ $ M 














THE ARCHBISHOP 
AND THE LADY 


BY 

Mrs. Schuyler Crowninshteld 

« 




NEW YORK 

McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO. 
M C M 


£ V 






98799 


Library of Congress 

Two Copies Received 

OCT 31 1900 

Ctyyogirt entry 

<Qt) . 

FIRST COPY. 

2-dCop, Delivered to 

ORDCR DIVISION 

NOV 1719 00 


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.Ces^ 

6 /oV^ 


flRST COPY 
delivered to 

DEC 29 1900 

OKtitK DIVISION 


TJT 


Copyright, 1900, 
SfcCLURE, PHILLIPS & OO, 


7 ° y 








TO 

MADAME JULIETTE ADAM 
A SOJOURN AT WHOSE CHARMING ES¬ 
TATE SUGGESTED TO THE AUTHOR THE 
SETTING FOR A PART OF HER STORY 


“The Anchorage’’ 
Mt. Desert Island, Maine 
October, 1900 










THE AKCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


i. 


The heavy little train, with its carriages modelled 
apparently after the pattern of a child’s toy, rumbled 
slowly away from the station, starting up a new cloud 
of dust which whirled with appropriate laziness. It 
appeared to be a sleepy valley, this Yal de Moncou- 
sis, and the dust of the track emulated the motion of 
the train which caused it to arise. 

Quentin had seen his belongings thrown upon the 
asphalted platform, and picking up his valise, he 
turned toward the plastered station and entered. He 
made for the exit, gave up his ticket and passed 
through the further door. He came upon a circle of 
green round which the white road wound the end of 
its loop-like thread. The circle and accompanying 
road reminded him of a frying-pan with a long handle 
stretching away down the slight incline. There was 
no carriage standing there as he had expected, and to 
his disgust no vehicle of any kind. 

Quentin turned to the Chef de Gare. 

“Is there no carriage here from the Abbey?” 

“As M’sieu sees there is none.” 

1 



2 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“I telegraphed.” 

The Chef de Gare shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Can I get a conveyance ? ” 

The Chef de Gare repeated the encouraging ges¬ 
ture. 

“ They are all away, M’sieu. It is a fete day, as 
probably M’sieu knows. There is nothing to be had; 
a little later, perhaps-” 

“Can you send my things over to the Abbey? I 
suppose it is not too far for me to walk ? ” 

Another shrug. “As I have already said, M’sieu, 
a little later, if M’sieu will be satisfied with that, but 
at the moment the new rich lord has taken the sta¬ 
tion wagon. He came by the last train. He lives 
across the valley some kilometres away. He tele¬ 
graphed ! ” 

“So did I,” said Quentin, his tone showing much 
annoyance. 

“ Is M’sieu certain about the date ? Did not M ’ sieu, 
perhaps, say to-morrow ? ” 

Quentin turned and faced this new speaker. 

“Yes,” said he, “but I wrote it yesterday.” 

“And was not M’sieu’s message sent, perhaps, this 
morning ? ” 

Quentin uttered an exclamation of chagrin. It was 
true. He had written the message on the previous 
evening, as he had crossed in the boat from Southamp¬ 
ton, and had handed it in that very morning at Paris, 
without remembering that the word “ to-morrow ” 
should have been changed for the word “to-day.” 

“ And you are-? ” 

“The telegraph clerk, M’sieu.” 

Quentin turned away with the wish that he had 
some one to blame but himself. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 3 


“ I sent the boy over with the message a half hour 
ago,” continued the man. 

Only a half hour ago! Then naturally they had 
not sent for him; probably the boy had not yet ar¬ 
rived at the Abbey. 

Quentin stood and thought for a moment. He 
looked across the valley to the wooded height, won¬ 
dering how soon the station wagon would come rat¬ 
tling down the road. He turned and gazed along 
the track after the baby train which was rumbling 
slowly round a distant curve. The evening dew was 
bringing out the odors of the flowers, the sun had set 
some time since. 

“ Is it far ? ” he asked, turning again to the clerk. 

“Not so far, M’sieu. A matter of five or six kilo¬ 
metres, perhaps.” 

“ And you will send my traps over, then ? ” 

“So soon as that lazy Antoine returns, M’sieu. 
He should be back by now. He may overtake the 
M’sieu on the road/’ 

The Chef de Gare shaded his eyes with his hand 
from habit, for the sun had sunk behind the opposite 
hills, and looked down along the handle of the frying- 
pan. The valley was now cold and gray. A few 
faint stars were beginning to stand out against their 
background of dark blue. 

“Very well, I will start. Which way then ? ” 

“ It is an easy walk, M’sieu. M’sieu need not start 
by the road.” Quentin had taken a few steps in the 
direction of rounding the circle. “If M’sieu will re¬ 
turn through the gare, I can show him a shorter way 
than that. The carriage road runs back for some 
distance, that it may underrun the railway.” They 
entered the station, and came out again upon the 



4 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


platform where Quentin had alighted. “ I will be re¬ 
sponsible ”—the Chef de Gare looked anxiously up 
along the track in the direction of Paris—“ for taking 
M’sieu across the track. Eh bien! now, down that 
little slope; in that way M’sieu will cut off a half 
kilometre, perhaps. Just below there is the road 
which M’sieu must follow until he comes to the 
Abbey wall. A high wall on the right, the wall of 
L’Abbaye de Bref.” 

“ How shall I know when I am there ? You have 
so many walls in your country-” 

“ The M’sieu cannot fail to know. It is the only 
wall of such great height. It was built to keep the 
Religious in.” The Chef de Gare smiled. “It had 
not always that effect, as M’sieu has probably heard, 
though it is so high. The M’sieu cannot miss the 
Abbey. It is only about five kilometres, at most, from 
the station.” 

“ I may lose my way on another road. ” 

“There is no other road, M’sieu. There is just 
room enough between the wall on the right and the 
hill on the left for the road. M’sieu must ring at the 
green door in the wall.” 

“All doors, like all cats, are black at night,” said 
Quentin smiling. 

“I could wish that it was not so dark a night,” 
said the Chef de Gare, with a thread of anxiety in 
his tone. 

“It is not dark, my friend.” 

“But it soon will be, M’sieu, long before M’sieu 
can reach L’Abbaye de Bref. For me I prefer to 
make my visits there in the day time.” His tone 
caused Quentin to look questioningly at him. “But 
then there are others who are not of my opinion. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 5 


N* 


Merci bien! M’sieu,” as lie pocketed the liberal dou¬ 
ceur, “ the luggage of M’sieu will soon follow him, if 
I can get that stupid Antoine to go over the Abbey 
road at night. Bon soir, M’sieu. The M’sieu must 

keep straight on to the-” but Quentin with long 

quick strides had put a non-liearing distance between 
himself and his voluble adviser. 

Quentin struck out at a smart pace, following the 
dim ribbon of white, which showed itself under the 
twilight. His coat and shoes were covered with the 
very palpable dust of the country highway, but he 
pushed sturdily onward. The walk, notwithstanding 
the all-pervading dust, was a relief to him. He had 
been sitting in the train for some time, and before 
that had been driving about Paris on various matters 
of business, and he thankfully stretched his legs. 

He met no one, and, after walking a half hour or 
more, his road turned to the left, and he found that 
he was ascending a gentle rise. At the top of the 
hill the road once more turned to the right, and in 
the dim distance he thought that he saw the figure of 
a man or boy. “ Probably the telegraph messenger,” 
he said to himself. 

As there were no cross roads to distract him, 
Quentin kept on as he had been advised by the Chef 
de Gare. The moon, which seemed to be struggling 
to arise from behind a barrier on the left, was be¬ 
ginning to silver the treetops upon the crest of the 
hills. 

This must be the wood of which the Chef de Gare 
had spoken. 

As Quentin continued upon his way there began to 
loom up upon his right a dark object. It stretched 
away across the fields at right angles to the wood, and 



6 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


lie felt sure that this must be the Abbey wall, which 
wall, he had heard, enclosed the whole domain. A 
further walk of five minutes brought him to the angle 
where the wall began to march and run parallel with 
the road, and then he found himself within a groove, 
its sides being formed by the wall on the one side, 
and the wooded height upon the other. Some cool 
gusts of wind swept down the hill-side and brought 
with them the odors of a twilit wood. A few birds 
chirped to each other a late good-night. Quentin 
stopped for a moment, to become better acquainted 
with this wall, which seemed to enclose and make of 
the place where he was to remain for the next few 
days a veritable fortress. The wall was apparently 
impregnable. Its face was flat, and though composed 
of rough stones, it gave no chance for hand or foot¬ 
hold. Its top, he found later, was roofed with glazed 
tiles. Foolish indeed would be the mortal who 
should attempt to surmount it, unless he possessed 
a ladder of unusual length. 

As Quentin paused to survey the wall he became 
conscious that he was being surveyed in turn by 
some scrutinizing eye. He started, and peered 
through the semi-darkness. A faint glimmer, creep¬ 
ing over the hill behind him cast an eerie light upon 
an object above his head. It fell upon a thin elfish 
face, from which supernaturally large eyes gazed. 

“ Is that you, little Father ? ” said a child’s high 
voice, and without waiting for an answer, “Valery, 
is that you ? ” 

The moon was clearing the treetops now, and 
Quentin found that he was gazing upward upon the 
face of a child. It looked unearthly in the green 
light of the moon. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 7 


“ How did you get up there ? ” asked Quentin. 
“ It must be at least four or five feet above my head.” 

“I am glad you spoke,” said a high little voice, 
an awed voice, from which all traces of fear had not 
vanished; “ I thought you were a Return. It is those 
Returns that make me afraid. Nothing else makes 
me to fear.” 

“ Return! ” repeated Quentin in amaze, which 
showed in his voice, for his face was in shadow. 

"Yes, yes, those Returns, those Revenants.” The 
tone was impatient. “ The nun of the oubliette; the 
Abbess who imprisoned her, those poor little ones; 
the grand Seigneur—Ah! bah! why will I speak that 
French ? I thought you might be my father. Then 
I thought you might be Father Halle. Alixe has 
gone up the road. She told me to wait for her here. 
I was not to tell any one. You will not tell of Alixe. 
Not to Mamasha, neither to any one; I love Alixe.” 

"I will not tell,” said Quentin, wondering whom 
this unknown Alixe might be who went to the wood 
in this gloomy hour, leaving a child to keep watch 
upon the wall. 

“I was to tell her if Mamasha called. You will 
not speak of the Grand Seigneur, if you should come 
to the Abbey,” urged the child. 

“I know nothing of the Grand Seigneur, child. 
Tell me where to find the green door in the wall.” 

“I knew you must be for the Abbaye. No one 
comes this far who is not for the Abbaye. I beg of 
you not to speak of the Grand Seigneur, because they 
tell me that I should not know of him, and Alixe 
sends them away if they tell me about him. It was 
because of the Grand Seigneur that the Lady Abbess 
put the poor nun in the oubliette. Not Alixe, but the 

\ 

f 

t' 

/ 




8 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


old, old Lady Abbess who lived here hundreds and 
hundreds of years ago. The one who lived behind 
the iron doors, and counted her money, and hugged 
it close because of the Robber-knights. When she 
comes, Marie Monrouge says, she always has her bag 
of offerings hugged close to her breast, that Abbess. 
I should not like to see that Lady Abbess! ” 

“You poor little atom,” said Quentin kindly. 
“They have stuffed you full of nonsense, haven’t 
they? Get down from that wall and talk sense. 
Here! let me help you down. Can you jump ? ” 

“I must not go until Alixe comes,” said the child. 
“ Can you not stay until Alixe comes ? Do stay ! ” 
Just here a sweet low cry came softly upon the 
evening air. 

“ Gartlia, Gartha, where are you ? ” 

Quentin looked along the road. Then he dimly 
discerned two figures standing together under the 
wall. 

“ Come, little one,” said he, “ is that for you ? ” 

As Quentin spoke he glanced again toward the fig¬ 
ures and saw that one of them was clad in black, the 
other in white. 

The child disappeared instantly from the top of the 
wall, her voice sounded indistinctly from the other 
side. 

“Good, strange Monsieur, do not stay late.” He 
heard the voice growing fainter as the child got nearer 
the earth. “ Alixe demands me at the garden gate. 
I must remove the hook.” 

Quentin heard the pattering of little feet on the 
other side of the stone barrier. 

He stood still. He did not wish to intrude upon 
strangers at this unseemly hour. His hostess, he 


THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 9 


knew, was not named Alixe. Perhaps lie had made 
a mistake and had come to the wrong house. Per¬ 
haps his whilom friend had gone away. She was 
ever erratic, if kindly; never more so, Quentin 
thought, than when she began a correspondence with 
him after a fortnight’s acquaintance at Trouville, 
which finally merged into a pressing request that he 
should pay her a visit at the Abbey. 

Quentin saw that the two figures stood for a mo¬ 
ment in the road, evidently talking together, and that 
when they parted the white figure halted a, moment, 
then returned to the other. He had started forward, 
and could not help hearing the final sentences of this 
mysterious pair. 

“ Then you think it safe for me to come ? ” asked 
a man’s voice. 

The answer came in the sweet low tone which had 
called “ Gartlia, Gartha, where are you ? ” 

“ Safe! and why not ? Iam not afraid, why should 
you be ? No one will know.” 

Then the white figure seemed to melt into the dark¬ 
ness of the wall. By the time that it had vanished 
Quentin was close upon the other. The man was still 
standing where he had been left alone, his head bent 
upon his breast. Quentin’s footfall made no sound 
in the thick dust of the road. 

“ Alixe! Alixe! ” he heard in muttered tones that 
were full of despair. He saw that he was trespassing 
upon forbidden ground, and spoke at once in a clear 
voice. “Good evening, my friend,” he said. “Can 
you tell me the way to the Abbaye de Bref ? ” 

It was the figure of a priest which stood before 
Quentin. He was dressed in the long black frock of 
his order. His face was pale, his features working 


10 THE AKCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


convulsively, but he drew a quick breath and pulled 
himself together at the inquiry. 

“ We are near the entrance,” he replied coldly. He 
surveyed the distinguished looking stranger critically. 
“ And what may you wish with the Abbaye de Bref ? ” 

“I am a belated traveller,” answered Quentin. 
“ My luggage is at the station. My telegram must 
have been-” 

“A visitor ? And to whom, pray? ” 

At the priest’s abrupt manner the blood rushed to 
Quentin’s face, but in a flash he realized that this 
man was connected in some way with those whom 
he was about to meet, to visit, and, controlling him¬ 
self, he replied, 

“ To the owner, Madame Petrofsky; she is here, I 
suppose.” 

The priest gave a short laugh. “ To the owner! ” 
he said. “Pardon me, Monsieur, I will show you 
the way.” 

Quentin walked along by his side for about a hun¬ 
dred yards, neither of them speaking. He glanced 
furtively at his guide as they proceeded. Suddenly 
the priest halted. “The door is there,” he said. 

“I see no door,” said Quentin groping blindly. 

As he spoke he was conscious of the distant sound 
of gay laughter somewhere within the interior. The 
priest started with an exclamation of anger. He bent 
his head as if to listen, and then said, in a voice 
hardly raised above a whisper, “ The light has gone 
out.” 

Quentin glanced upward and saw that a lantern, 
whose wick was smoking from a glowing spark, hung 
above the door. 

“ I will ring for you,” said the priest. From habit 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 11 


obviously, lie reached liis hand upward in the dark¬ 
ness and found and jerked the handle that hung there. 
Then a loud metallic note pealed out on the still air. 
There was silence for a moment and then a distant 
voice was heard and a glimmer of light began to show 
through a now apparent crevice. There was a shuf¬ 
fling of feet and a rattling of bolts, and the door 
opened a little way. 

“ Who is there ? ” 

Quentin turned to thank the priest, but he had dis¬ 
appeared. 

“ It is I,” he answered, “Mr. Quentin. I am come 
upon a visit to Madame Petrofsky. Is she-” 

For answer the servant opened the door wider, 
threw back an ornamented grille, and Quentin stepped 
inside the doorway. 

He emerged upon a broad gravelled space, and so 
stood while the man closed both gate and door. In¬ 
stead of being under cover he was no more so than 
he had been at any time that evening. He found 
himself standing still beneath a moonlit sky, beneath 
his feet the fine gravel of the esplanade. Upon his 
left rose a grim pile of stone, whose barred windows 
were the more visible to the eye because of the many 
lights within. 

Directly in front of him, an hundred feet away, 
perhaps, and upon a line with the door by which he 
had entered the enclosure, his glance fell upon a vast 
interior. The prisms of an immense hanging lamp 
were reflected in the highly polished floor. Quentin 
caught in a flash the glitter of antique furniture and 
bric-a-brac, exquisite draperies, and pictures hanging 
against a wonderful background of color; the soft 
shades of heavy rugs and handsome skins, the long 



12 THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


broad vista, a bewildering mass of well chosen and 
expensive furnishings. There seemed to be no one 
in the great salon, but Quentin saw that it stood at 
right angles with the pile upon his left, and, in fact, 
was an immense, jutting-out corner of that structure. 
Then, as he waited, strange and alone, he was sud¬ 
denly conscious of lights in the near distance upon 
his right. Voices were intermingled in a gentle mur¬ 
mur, not yet distinct to his ear; there was a pleasant 
glow upon the gravel of the terrace, and over all 
broke the sweet shrill voice of Madame, his friend, 
Madame, bidding him welcome. “ You dear! ” ex¬ 
claimed Madame delightedly, “ you dear! ” 

“It is always the expected which happens here, 
my friend,” said Madame, as* she came forward, her 
small dainty figure showing more prominently as she 
approached from out the middle distance of darkness. 
Her hands were outstretched; in one of them she 
held a napkin; her skirts made a soft frou-frou against 
the gravel of the terrace. 

“ I had just been telling the Archbishop that we 
were expecting you. Was I not, your Grace ? ” This 
in louder tones to some one further away. “ I had 
almost given you up. Expect you for dinner ? ” 
She took Quentin’s hand in hers as she walked along 
by his side. “ No, not particularly, but I am always 
expecting some one, and I was quite sure that you had 
made a mistake in the telegram, men always do. 
The messenger was just ahead of you. I had just 
sent to tell Barker to get the landau-” 

“I sent the telegram this morning,” said Quentin, 
as he paced along the terrace by her side, his 
bronzed face bent down upon her upturned one. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 13 


“ And you convict yourself out of your own mouth! 
but I knew from your last letter that you had made a 
mistake in the date.” 

“ So that was the boy ahead of me ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, undoubtedly; but I never send messen¬ 
gers.” 

“ What do you do then ? ” asked Quentin, smiling 
down from his fine height upon the pretty, still 
youthful-looking widow, who looked up so smilingly 
at him. 

“ Why, we just come. Don’t we, Alixe ? ” 

Quentin started and raised his eyes. A figure in 
white was approaching from the opposite end of the 
terrace. The tall woman was followed by a small 
child. Quentin understood at once that the two had 
come along inside the wall, while he was walking in 
the same direction over the road, guided by the 
priest; the objective point of all being the table set 
beneath a trellissed roof. There were hanging lamps 
above the table, whose light flickered with every 
breath of the soft night air, and standing upon it 
were other lamps which gave forth a more steady 
light. The table was handsomely set with glass and 
silver, and there were bouquets of flowers in the cen¬ 
tre space, and at either end. 

“ Ah! here comes our Lady Abbess! ” It was the 
Archbishop who spoke, rising partly as he did so, 
"somewhat late, but ever welcome.” 

There were many persons seated at the table, per¬ 
haps twenty in all, and Madame now took the seat 
which she had just vacated to greet her friend. 

“Sit here by me, Mr. Quentin. Mademoiselle, 
will you move down one seat? Alixe, this is my 
friend, Mr. Quentin; His Grace the Archbishop, Mr. 


14 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


Quentin; Mademoiselle, Mr. Quentin; Baroness, 
Miss Thorndyke, Mr. Quentin. ” Several other names 
were mentioned at which their owners bowed slightly. 

“ And me! ” It was Gartha who spoke. 

Quentin gave her a flickering smile, and shook his 
head in good comradeship, as if saying, “ I will not 
tell.” Gartha nodded hers. 

“ Alixe, I do wish that you and Gartha could ever 
be on time. Here his Grace’s soup has been getting 
cold;-”• 

“ Do not mind me, ” said the Archbishop, with that 
gentle tone which was ever the first factor toward 
making him beloved of his friends. “ I do not care 
for hot soup in this weather.” 

“You must pardon me, your Grace,” said Alixe. 
“Gartha and I ramble sometimes rather far afield.” 

Quentin murmured something in Madame’s ear 
about wishing that he could have dressed. 

“You shall dress to-morrow,” said Madame with a 
happy laugh, laying her hand on his for a moment. 
“ You shall certainly do as you like now that I have 
got you here. Why were you never willing to come 
before ? ” The playful reproach in her tone made 
Quentin uncomfortable, especially as he saw afar 
down the table a pair of gray eyes fixed scrutinizingly 
upon him. 

The soup, a “croute au pot,” was excellent, and 
Quentin ate as became a traveller. To his surprise a 
melon was handed after the soup. 

As Quentin ate his melon he glanced occasionally 
at Alixe, and this is what he saw: A woman tall, 
slim, high-shouldered, her face pale, her lips a deli¬ 
cate pink, the upper one so short as constantly to dis¬ 
close her small white teeth set at an angle, the masses 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 15 


of her light brown hair pushed over her ears with 
silver combs and falling in loops upon her neck. 
Frills and falls of fluffy lisse and lace drooping 
forward, and tumbling in jabots from her shoulders 
to her waist, her long arms sometimes showing up to 
the elbow, as they protruded from the flowing open 
sleeve, sometimes entirely concealed amid the mass 
of chiffon, which seemed to enhance her angular 
young beauty. Upon her head she wore a sort of 
white stuff hat such as the Russian peasants wear, 
probably made of some sort of angora silk. Its brim 
curled upward, through which the light from the 
lamp above her head shone with a glow which seemed 
to form a halo. She did not offer to remove the hat, 
nor did she apologize for her 'appearance, which was 
quite at variance with the conventional dinner toilettes 
which Quentin saw all along on both sides of the 
table. Her costume had the effect of making him 
feel more at ease in his travelling suit. 

Quentin drank her in as he raised his eyes. He 
thought her the most picturesque figure by which his 
gaze had thus far been arrested. Alixe gave him one 
direct straightforward glance from her seat at the 
extreme end of the table, and helped Gartlia to some 
melon. 

"Yes, he was unfrocked,” said the Archbishop, 
evidently continuing an interrupted conversation. 
“ My office forbids me to discuss the matter, but as 
you ask me, I must answer that he has been un¬ 
frocked.” 

“ Of whom are you speaking, Your Grace ? ” asked 
Mademoiselle, a black little minim with a gray mous¬ 
tache. 

Alixe glanced at her with a shade of annoyance 


16 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


flashing across her face. She began to speak, thought 
better of it, and drooped her head to the hearing with 
a resigned sigh. 

“ Father Halle, Mademoiselle, him whom you know 
as Father Halle, but it is a painful subject, let us 
drop it.” 

“ But Robert Halle was-” 

"Little girls should be neither seen nor heard,” 
said Alixe, looking severely at the child who had 
spoken. "Come! you had better go to your bed.” 
She arose. "It is too late for you to be up.” 

"But when the child has had no dinner,” called 
Madame in her high shrill voice, "and when you 
yourself kept her out, Alixe, and she misses her tea, 
and then-” 

Gartha had risen and was standing, awaiting the 
final decision of Alixe. She looked at her question- 
ingly submissive, as if desiring only to know her 
wishes to obey. 

"It is true,” said Alixe reseating herself. "Sit 
down again, Gartha, but occupy yourself with your 
dinner. I will give you ten minutes, and you see 
there is no time for words.” 

“There is a pilauf, Alixe,” said Gartha humbly. 

"Charles, bring some of the pilauf for Mademoi¬ 
selle Gartha.” 

"I love you. Alixe,” said Gartha. 

"Eat not so goulument, Garta,” screamed Made¬ 
moiselle warningly. 

“Alixe is always just,” shrilled Madame. “Even 
when the dear Duke-” 

" Mamasha, let us leave the discussion of my virtues 
for another time.” Something like a smile flitted 
across the face of the speaker. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 17 


“I will explain to you later,” murmured Madame 
in Quentin’s ear. “ Alixe hates to be talked over, but 
to-morrow we will go up into the wood and——” 

“ Let us go into the wood and talk about yourself, 
Madame,” suggested Quentin, in so low a tone and 
with so much fervour that the Archbishop directed a 
scrutinizing glance across the table at him, and Ma¬ 
dame flushed becomingly. 

Quentin’s ear, though trained to catch the spoken 
French language with little trouble, was constantly on 
the alert. One never knew which tongue would be 
uppermost, and sometimes Lady Barnes, a linguist 
of repute, indulged in flights among the Italian and 
Spanish languages. Alixe spoke Russian to a servant 
who waited at the table, and madame occasionally 
brought a Russian word or sentence into the conver¬ 
sation. When Madame'spoke it, it sounded to Quen¬ 
tin, who did not speak Russian, as if that language were 
being dragged in by the heels. This astonished him, 
as he had understood that Madame was a Russian. 

Before the meal was ended, she, whom Quentin 
knew only by the name of Alixe, arose. 

"Say good night, Gartha,” said she, “and kiss 
Mamaslia’s hand. Make your courtesy to His Grace. 
Come now! Off we go! ” 

The child did as she was bid; then the two bowed 
ceremoniously to the assembled company, and van¬ 
ished along the terrace, the child clinging close to the 
tall figure, who walked with her head bent somewhat 
forward, thus concealing her real height. 

“I do wish Alixe were a little more conventional,” 
sighed Madame. In the darkness could be heard the 
sound of the voices of the two, and the skipping of 
light feet across the loose gravel of the terrace, and 
2 


18 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


the cries of, “Alixe, where are you?” or “Gartha, 
where have you gone? ” and the answering cry of 
“Here I am; come and find me.” 

There was merry laughter, low and soft from the 
one, and a child’s glad cry from the other, and finally 
a far door down along the terrace opened for a mo¬ 
ment, emitting a broad gleam of light, and then was 
closed, shutting away the sound of the voices, and the 
sight of these incongruous playmates. 

“Owze Duchess spoils Garta,” remarked a lady 
whom they addressed as Baroness. 

The Duchess! Who was the Duchess? 

“ Coffee in the salon, Charles,” said Madame as she 
arose. She turned toward the prelate. “ And must 
you leave us to-morrow, Your Grace? ” 

“Without doubt, dear Madame. I must take a 
morning train back to Paris. It was difficult for me 
to get away even for a day.” And then, in a lower 
tone, “I had heard of Halle’s being seen about here, 
and I felt it my duty to warn you, not only as an old 
friend, but as a priest of the church, to have nothing 
to do with him.” 

“But Robert has always-” 

“ You must not condone his behavior, Madame, be¬ 
cause he is a friend; you—a devoted daughter of the 
church.” 

Quentin thought of the black figure which he had 
seen at the gate. Had he unearthed a mystery so 
soon? Was this Father Halle, the unfrocked priest? 
Could he be loitering here to do some injury to this 
benign looking old man? Was it his, Quentin’s, duty 
to inform his Grace that a priest lurked without the 
wall? Should he so early in his visit volunteer un¬ 
pleasant information of which he only was possessed? 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 19 


Had the Archbishop been departing at once Quentin 
might have felt bound to declare what he had seen, 
but his Grace had said “to-morrow,” there could be 
little danger in the light of day; and then, there was 
Alixe. Quentin knew of no other name by which to 
call her, in his thoughts. A feeling of loyalty toward 
her sprang up within his breast, a feeling which lie 
quenched at once as absurd. She would hardly be 
grateful to him for his loyalty. She had vouchsafed 
him not a word. She had given him simply a cold 
bow of welcome and as cold a good night. 

Coffee was served in the grand salon of the chateau. 
It was a walk of about two hundred feet from the trel- 
lissed arbour where they had dined to the great door 
of the main house. They all trooped, in well-bred 
disorder, into the great salon, of which Quentin had 
caught a glimpse upon his arrival. There were many 
persons in the room; black coated men and charm¬ 
ingly costumed women. Quentin felt himself too trav¬ 
el-stained to remain with that brilliant company. The 
ringing of the bell at the gate gave him an excuse to 
rise. As he hoped, it proved to be the tardy Antoine 
with his belongings, and he followed Madame out on 
to the terrace as the door was opened. 

“ Is that all you brought? ” asked Madame in a dis¬ 
appointed tone, with her pretty Russian accent and 
childish lisp. “ Take Monsieur’s things to the chalet, 
Eugene. I will go with you and show you your quar¬ 
ters. No, no! It is a pleasure. It’s a queer old 
place. Have you any nerves, Mr. Quentin? I hope 
not. Bruno’s rooms are there also. Bruno is an en¬ 
thusiastic inventor. He goes away to get ideas and 
buy chemicals. Sometimes I wish he were not quite 
so enthusiastic.” 


20 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“ Bruno? ” said Quentin interrogatively. 

“ Yes, my nephew, Count St. Aubin. He may pos¬ 
sibly arrive before you leave us. We never know— 
hold the lighjfc, Pierre Monrouge. Come this way, 
my friend. ” 

They were out of doors with only the sky, moon 
and stars above them. It was a perfect night. The 
air came softly to caress the cheek, filled with the 
breath of the cinnamon pinks and the midsummer 
roses. Quentin paced along the terrace by the side 
of Madame. They passed the deserted table, where 
the swinging and standing lamps lighted up the dis¬ 
ordered remains of the feast. The table was set 
within a sort of alcove, a wall, the outer wall of the 
enclosure, making the inner boundary of the recess. 
The other three sides were open, except for the pillars 
of stone which upheld the roof, and showed their an¬ 
cient roughness between the masses of greenery with 
which the vines had draped them. 

“ The chalet looks like an entresol on stilts, doesn’t 
it? ” laughed Madame. 

A few steps further on they stopped at the entrance 
to a stairway, down which some beams of light flick¬ 
ered. There seemed to be a struggle going on to get 
Quentin’s belongings up the stairs, and he turned his 
back until it should be over. 

“You feel just as I do,” said Madame, as she also 
turned away. “ When they are bringing a rented 
piano into my apartment in town, I go out for the 
day. When I return, there stands the piano. Magic 
has been at work. I have simply waved my wand. 
I do not care to see the men perspire and hear them 
groan, and perhaps give vent to an occasional curse, 
which I know is intended for me. My servants may 


THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 21 


hear that. That is what I pay them for.” She 
walked out to the edge of the broad terrace; Quentin 
followed. She stood there, her youthful back turned 
toward her guest, looking up the long valley in the 
direction of Paris, Nearer, the greenish light was 
flooding the plateau below the terrace, and silvering 
the ragged edges of the Abbey, which Quentin seemed 
now to have noticed for the first time. It stood per¬ 
haps three hundred feet or so beyond the terrace, and 
made an exquisite picture in the uncertain rays of 
light. The great rose-blooms were nodding in the 
evening breeze and sending forth languorous odors as 
they moved. 

“I feel as if I were living in a dream,” said Quen¬ 
tin. “ Do assure me that I shall not awake presently, 
at some fashionable watering place, or in a great 
stuffy room of a Paris hotel.” 

“ It is a dream from which you need not awake, my 
friend, ” said Madame in her softest voice. “ But you 
have seen ruins before. You have seen Kenilworth 
and Chatsworth and fifty others-” 

“ Yes, yes! As a tourist, a sightseer, but to live in 
a place like this, full of mystery, full of romance, to 
feel that it is mine for the moment, to look forward 
to days of exploration and nights of cold chills ”— 
Quentin broke off with a contented shiver of delight. 
“ You once asked me, Madame, what you might give 
me. You could give me nothing better than this; 
some days spent with you at l’Abbaye de Bref.” 

Madame turned toward him and laid her small 
hands upon his arm. She pressed it fondly. “You 
dear! ” she said. 

There was the sound of a succession of thumps 
within the chalet. Light was now streaming out of 


22 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


three or four windows, and in a moment they heard 
feet descending the stairway. Then a ray of light 
crept wobblingly along the ground. Suddenly it 
spread into a star, as Antoine, a Rembrandt picture 
in illumination as well as ugliness, emerged from the 
doorway. 

“Now, come, I will show you,” said Madame, start¬ 
ing forward. “No, no!” as Quentin tried to put 
something into Antoine’s hand. “ Don’t spoil the sim¬ 
ple peasant. We pay them by the year over there at 
the station. Bon soir! Antoine. Follow me, my 
friend,” and Madame disappeared within the open 
doorway. 

There seemed to be no door; simply an archway of 
stone through which Quentin followed his guide. The 
stairs were of brick, the front of the treads of wood 
worn and hollow in places. The flight curved gently 
at the bottom, then ran straight and ended upon a 
landing also of brick. The two pairs of feet made a 
strange shuffling noise, as their owners proceeded. 
When they came out upon the landing, Quentin saw 
that an ancient looking lantern hung above his head 
and gave out a feeble light. Upon the right of the 
landing was an open door, and he saw that there was 
also a door upon the left. This door was closed. 

“ Those are Bruno’s rooms,” said Madame, pointing 
to the closed door, “and these are yours.” She 
turned toward the open door and ushered Quentin 
into a charming chamber. 

The room was well lighted with candles. It was 
in shape a rectangle. There were windows on either 
side, and at the further end a door was open. A light 
shone from within. 

“ This is your dressing room, ” said Madame, passing 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 23 


through the first to the second chamber, “ and here 
beyond again is another little place for your boxes, 
when Marie Monrouge has emptied them to-morrow.” 

Quentin found that he was in possession of two 
charming rooms, as well as a large closet, or, rather, 
a third room, in which were frames for coats, stands 
for trunks and boxes, a bath ready for the night, with 
cans of water standing by, and everything which was 
calculated to add to his comfort. This third room 
was not furnished. The floor was bare of carpet, ex¬ 
cept for the bath rug, which was in its place by the 
liat-batli. 

The candle which Madame held flickered almost as 
if some one were blowing upon the flame. Quentin 
felt a cold blast of air on his neck, his cheek. He 
looked inquiringly toward tho black opening from 
which the draught of air seemed to come. 

Madame laughed tremulously. 

“ That was a doorway. You can see where the nar¬ 
row little door has been removed from its hinges, ages 
ago perhaps. No one knows the date of anything in 
these old buildings, or when anything happened here. 
Things were always happening, I fancy. Don’t go too 
near, my friend,” as Quentin moved towards the top 
step. “ Those stairs are steep, and I shall not want 
you laid up with a sprained ankle. There are too 
many lovely walks about this old place; and now that 
I have got you here at last, you must see everything 
there is to be seen—see it all with me.” 

Quentin stood peering down the stairway. He 
might as well have looked into a pocket. There 
seemed to be nothing below there but the blackness 
of darkness. 

“ Where does it lead to? ” he asked. 



24 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“ To an old disused door in tlie outer wall. Did 
you notice how broad and thick these walls are? No? 
You could hardly have had an opportunity yet except 
as you entered the place. You must see it to-morrow. 
Just here, I fancy, the wall is but a shell, and the pas¬ 
sageway is left between the outer and the inner shell.” 

“ That would be an easy way to storm your fortress,” 
said Quentin, laughing. “The vulnerable point in 
your armor.” 

“ The door is old, but the iron is thick. The bolts 
are strong, and the key we keep in the chateau. 
Alixe takes charge of it. The door is probably 
stronger than the wall itself. Besides, who should 
want to storm our fortress?” Madame laughed. 
“So far as I know we are at peace with the world.” 

“ That is the third door of which I already know 
in your impregnable outer wall,” said Quentin, jok¬ 
ingly. 

“ Ah! ” Madame returned. “ The Abbey has great 
possibilities. It is a place with a past. At one time, 
in the fifteenth century, I think Alixe said, it lapsed 
into simply a social and secular house. All religious 
vows were abrogated, if not formally, then by simply 
letting them fall into disuse. That was a generation 
of romance, such as nowadays we never dream of. 
There were love scenes, and flights, and punishments, 
and—but come! I must not keep you standing here. 
You must be tired to death! ” 

Madame set the candle down upon a little deal table, 
and returned to the dressing room and so through to 
the larger sleeping chamber. 

“ I see that Marie Monrouge has made both the 
beds,” said she, glancing into the dressing room. 
“ You can take your choice.” 


THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 25 


"I shall not want to go away at all,” said Quentin, 
"after such an embarrassment of luxury. Four 
windows! ” he added. “ I shall not want for air.” 

“Two of them look upon the road,” explained Ma^ 
dame. “The chalet is built, as you will see to-mor¬ 
row, into the wall, welded into it, in fact, just as the 
chateau is built into it further along. Between the 
two and connecting them runs the simple wall of the 
domain for, perhaps, two hundred feet. The windows 
on the road we keep closed, though there is no reason 
why you should not have them open if you wish. 
But those on the terrace we always leave open. You 
will find no mosquitoes, my American friend, to dis¬ 
turb your night’s rest, and now, good night! ” 

She turned to Quentin and held out both her hands. 

He stretched out his own, and clasped them. How 
soft and small they were! How young she looked in 
the dim light of the lamp! Hardly more than thirty 
years of age. 

“May you be so content with me—with us,” she 
said, “ that you will not care to leave the Abbey soon. 
Happy, happy dreams! ” She had held Quentin’s 
hands all the time that she was speaking. 

“Good night, Mamasha,” he laughingly returned. 
He shook her hands up and down in an embarrassed 
sort of way. “Good night, Mamasha, good night!” 

She withdrew hers quickly. 

“You heard my niece call me that,” she said. 
“ They all do it. You would think I were the mother 
of the whole human race.” 

“Not when I look at you,” replied Quentin gal¬ 
lantly. 

“ You dear 1 Bruno calls me so, and Gartha-” 


26 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


"The little girl is a relative, then? ” 

“ She is the child of a sister of Alixe. Alixe is 
wrapped up in her. But come! No more to-night. 
Sleep well, arise when it pleases you, ring your bell 
for coffee, or come down to the arbour; above all, 
while you remain among us feel as if l’Abbaye de 
Bref were your home.” Her sweet high voice rang 
the final words back at him, as she tick-tacked down 
the stair. 

Quentin properly reproached himself for the evan¬ 
escent thought that Madame’s good night had been 
somewhat more fervid than the occasion warranted, 
and, experiencing a feeling of annoyance with him¬ 
self, he proceeded to examine his quarters. 

The floor was laid with octagon tiles of deep red, 
dull and mellow in tone. The windows were hung 
with curtains, fresh and neat, but whose creamy tinge 
confessed, perforce, to the flight of time since they 
were young. Upon them was a design of deep red, 
where shepherdesses and shepherds, with sheep to 
play propriety, disported themselves in the fields, and 
where carter lads and horses struggled with mountains 
of hay and carts much larger than themselves. The 
curtains were edged with a quaint red fringe and 
looped back with plain red bands. The wood work 
of the room was white. The walls were hung with a 
pale green stuff, against which he discovered some 
ancient prints at such a height that their little impro¬ 
prieties could not become large factors in the corrupt¬ 
ing of those who tried from their distant stand upon 
the floor to decipher their meaning. Under foot were 
soft rugs, which caught in the heels of Quentin’s 
shoes, and which he was constantly laying in place 
again. The bed, a high French bed, with its duvet 


THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 27 


and mountain of little pillows, tickled his fancy, and 
lie chuckled aloud as he wondered how he was going 
to sleep among such smothering comforts. The great 
dressing table was covered with the same material as 
that which draped the windows, and had Quentin pos¬ 
sessed a woman’s curiosity or domestic knowledge, 
he would have examined to find it but a simple con¬ 
struction of deal, made beautiful and useful by eco¬ 
nomical taste. 

Quentin cast a glance toward the little dressing 
room, then he advanced slowly across its threshold. 
The flickering of the candle in the further room re¬ 
minded him that it was still alight on the table where 
Madame had left it, and he entered the closet to extin¬ 
guish it. The room had a lonely air; arid as before the 
draught which came from the narrow staircase waved 
the flame to and fro. Quentin took the candle in his 
hand and leaned far over the opening, but again he 
could perceive nothing. With quick determination 
he retreated, and passing through the middle room 
into his bed-chamber, he closed and bolted the door. 

“It is foolish to sleep in a draught,” he said to 
himself, thus excusing a slight feeling to which he 
scarcely confessed, and, if he did acknowledge it ever 
so faintly, of which he was at the same moment 
ashamed. Kemembering the neglected bath prepared 
for him, but too tired to more than reproach himself, 
he undressed hastily, and, climbing into the high bed, 
stretched his form along the cool and grateful linen. 

Quentin had thought that sleep would have met him 
half-way, but although the perfect stillness of the 
night was broken by no disturbing sound, his new 
and strange surroundings, preceded by his somewhat 
adventurous arrival amid a houseful of people, but 



28 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


one of whom he had ever met before, kept him 
awake. He thought as he lay there, in a state of 
pleasurable languor, that he heard the distant sounds 
of music, and once the notes of a voice rose upon the 
air, but it was faint, and listen as he would he could 
catch no consecutive sounds. He had never been in 
a place before the silence of which so impressed him. 
It pervaded all things. If he but moved in his bed, 
it seemed as if they must hear the sound in the chateau. 
Suddenly, voices somewhere near him brought him 
back from the borderland of dreams. He listened, 
than sat up in bed, then slid down from the slippery 
mountain to the floor, and approached the window. 
The voices came from two persons who were seated 
beneath the great tree, whose branches a little further 
on spread in shade across the gravel of the terrace. 
The voices were those of a man and a woman, but 
their words were indistinct. Some one was smoking, 
for Quentin saw the red spark of a cigar beneath the 
tree, and after a few moments the aroma of a very 
good Havana came drifting to his nostrils. He had 
no wish to know who these people were. He felt no 
curiosity at all in the matter. He leaned lazily out 
of the window, taking them in as part of the general 
interest of his surroundings. He gazed across his 
narrow little balcony at the ruined Abbey, at the far 
fields, and further hillsides; at the near flower garden, 
at the nearer terrace, and again glanced down at the 
two figures showing faintly through the low sweeping 
branches. He sniffed the fragrance again of the good 
cigar, and wished that he had not hurried off so soon 
to bed only to find that he could not sleep. 

As he continued lazily to regard them, the two per¬ 
sons arose and came out from under the obscuring 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 29 


shade of tlie tree, and now Quentin saw that they 
were his friend, Madame, and her guest, the Arch¬ 
bishop. Madame was talking volubly, while the 
Archbishop puffed slowly, listening courteously, um 
til she had finished. The two began to pace the ter¬ 
race side by side. Madame turned occasionally to 
lay her hand upon the Archbishop’s arm. Finally 
as, extending their walk a few feet, they came near 
Quentin’s balcony, the words of the Archbishop were 
brought distinctly to his ear. 

“I warn you as a daughter of the church to have 
nothing to do with him, either now or at any other 
time. I assure you that you will regret it if you do.” 

“ But if Alixe persists-” 

Quentin shrank behind the vines, for they had 
reached the point opposite his darkened window. 
They passed on toward the end of the terrace, Ma¬ 
dame still arguing, the Archbishop listening as he 
puffed his cigar. Quentin did not wait to see them 
return; he had no fancy for the role of eavesdropper, 
and again mounting to his mattress, he was soon 
asleep. 

How long he slept he knew not. He was awakened 
by a sound. What it had been he could not deter¬ 
mine. He sat up in his bed and listened. The quiet 
was as the silence in the chamber of death. He 
glanced toward his window. The moon had set and 
the early day was breaking. He tried to sleep again, 
but he and sleep had parted company, for that night 
at least, and he arose and going to the window thrust 
his head from the framed opening. The fresh sweet 
scents of the early morning filled his nostrils. The 
gravel of the terrace was wet, as if watered by human 
hands. There, far away across the outlying hills, he 



30 THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


saw the first pale tinge of the early sun, thrown over 
from above the sharp rise at the back of the chalet. 
A lone bird chirped faintly. Quentin leaned further 
out of the window and lost himself in a wondering 
reverie. 

Why had he been led to this place? It was thus 
far mysterious and vague; delightful, certainly, but 
what had it to do with him? Why had he come here 
with no more knowledge of his hostess than that 
gained in a fortnight’s semi-flirtation at a French 
watering place. He had never thought to ask of her 
belongings, they did not interest him, and she had 
not volunteered any information. He considered it 
but the pleasure of a passing hour, his acquaintance 
with Madame. Had she not written, pressing him 
to visit her at l’Abbaye de Bref, he would have gone 
to his home and forgotten all but the kindness that 
had made his stay at the seaside more than pleasant. 
Madame had spoken vaguely of “the General,” and 
“the Count,” and “the dear dead Duke,” but then 
Quentin’s environment had brought him into ac¬ 
quaintance with so many Generals and Counts, if not 
dear dead Dukes, and of the three he was not quite 
certain whether the first two were alive or not. Here 
was he, a guest in a house of whose inmates he knew 
nothing. He knew that he had discovered on the top 
of a high wall an elfish child named Gartha—a child 
who hated the French and was afraid of Bevenants. 
He knew that he had seen a certain dark little lady 
who was short and stout, who wore a moustache which 
almost rivalled his own, and who shot a fine spray over 
his shirt bosom as she talked to him. He had sat for a 
time at a table with an Archbishop, who had remarked 
decidedly that some one had been unfrocked, a some 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 31 


one in whom lie took little interest. It was nothing 
to him if all the priests in France should be unfrocked. 
Probably there was as much blame on the one side as 
on the other. He had met a number of ladies and 
gentlemen, guests of the house, none of whose names 
he remembered, even if they had been mentioned. 
He had heard of a certain Bruno, who lived across 
the landing in those other rooms, presumably the 
counterpart of his own, but who was not an inmate of 
the Abbey at present. Above all he had seen a charm¬ 
ing young creature whom they called Alixe. Gartha 
had exclaimed, “ Oh! I love Alixe! ” Here Quentin 
stood straight, awakened wide from his reverie. 
There was no more sleep for him. He walked across 
toward the door of his dressing room. He would 
take the bath neglected the night before, then go for 
a mountain scramble, and be ready for the strange 
new day that awaited him. Then there was that black 
robed figure, who had guided him to the gate, and 
had rung the bell. He remembered his face, dark, 
sallow. As these thoughts coursed through his brain 
he had drawn back the bolt of the dressing room door, 
and had opened it,—was this priest a man to fear? 
Or a man to—Quentin’s glance crossed the bed. 
There lay the man of whom he had been thinking. 
His tonsured head was thrown back upon the pillow; 
his face was thin and lantern-jawed, but with a cer¬ 
tain beauty of its own; the eyes were covered with 
lids which seemed to sink deep into the hollows of 
their sockets. The abandonment of the figure showed 
that the man was lost in a deep sleep. A thin hand 
lay outside the cover. Upon a chair was thrown a 
black robe, and upon the floor lay the sandals of a 
priest. 



32 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 

Tlie man seemed to be about twenty-eight or thirty. 
He bad a careworn look which Quentin felt made him 
seem older than his years. As Quentin backed softly, 
the priest moved in his sleep. He muttered some 
broken sentences. "No, no! Bruno,” he said, "do 

not ask me. I cannot do it, even for-” 

Quentin went out and softly closed the door. 


II. 


It was not more than five o’clock when Quentin de¬ 
scended the chalet stair. He asked of Pierre Mon¬ 
rouge, who was raking the gravel of the terrace, if he 
could get to the river. 

“ Does M’sieu then wish to get away ? ” asked Pierre 
Monrouge wondering, open-mouthed. “Did M’sieu 
then pass an unquiet night? ” 

“ No, no, my good man. I want a plunge in the lit¬ 
tle stream.” 

“But M’sieu will take cold,” returned Pierre Mon¬ 
rouge with that prudence which is ever present with 
the French peasant so far as water is concerned. 

“I shall not take cold,” laughed Quentin; “show 
me the way.” 

“ M’sieu must have the key of the little door by the 
mill,” said Pierre Monrouge. “I will get it for 
M’sieu. But I strongly advise the M’sieu against 
it. We take les grands bains, it is true, on several 
days in the year. On Ascension day, par example! 
Tout le monde takes them on Ascension day, and we 
immerse the whole body in water before other fete 
days; often in midsummer, but that is in a house, 
where the room has been warmed. To dip oneself in 
the (cold water as it runs from the hills, it is indeed to 

tempt Providence, and-” 

Quentin seized the key, and fairly ran away to 

3 



34 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


escape tlie voluble speech which Pierre Monrouge was 
pouring out upon him. He hastened along the path 
beneath the chateau walls, and was soon at the mill 
door. 

He glanced as he ran at the ruin of the Abbey 
church, now showing rugged and grey in the early 
light, but a feeling of loyalty to Madame kept him 
from penetrating its interior. This was her present 
to him, his kind friend; the pleasure he was to expe¬ 
rience within the next few days. She had expressed 
a wish to show him everything of interest, herself. 
He would not mar her kindly anticipations by so 
much as a glance. 

A dip in the cool little stream which flowed just 
outside the Abbey walls in a world where he was the 
only soul awake, and a run back to the chalet, where 
he encased himself in fresh clothes, was the work of 
a half hour. Then the sun began to creep through the 
top of the pines which clothed the hill on the oppo¬ 
site side of the road. 

Quentin again descended the chalet stairs, and went 
along the terrace toward the entrance gate. The grille 
was thrown back, the door was open, and Pierre Mon¬ 
rouge was sweeping away" the ubiquitous dust of yes¬ 
terday from the broad stone step. 

“ Can I get up the hill from here? ” asked Quentin. 

“ The M’sieu has but to walk a little way back along 
the road, and he will find a path, a narrow little path, 
which leads up the hillside. But will not M’sieu have 
some coffee first? ” inquired Pierre Monrouge. 
“ Charles, is not the coffee ready? ” 

Charles, who had just come sleepily out from a 
door near the gate, looked in surprise at the strange 
Monsieur standing there, dressed for the day. 



THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 35 


“M’sieu must be cold, tlie water must have chilled 
him,” said Pierre Monrouge, who was apparently re¬ 
lieved to see Quentin in the flesh once more. 

“I am not cold,” said Quentin, laughing. “When 
is breakfast? ” 

“At all times, Monsieur,” replied Charles, with a 
sigh of protest at the luxurious irregularity of the 
early family meal. 

Quentin passed out of the gate, and walked back 
along the road that he had traversed the night before. 
A short distance from the chateau he passed an old 
iron door sunk in the wall. It had broad and strong 
hinges, which were yellow with rust, and large nails 
whose angular tops spoke plainly of a long past age. 
Quentin stood for a moment looking at the door. 
Then he glanced upward at the chalet underneath 
whose walls it was placed. He was satisfied that it 
was the door of which Madame had told him the night 
before, whose key was kept in the chateau, and at 
once the conviction forced itself upon his mind that 
it was through this door the priest must have entered 
to reach the small dressing room where he was now 
sleeping. If so, how had he obtained the key? 

Quentin turned away from the mysterious door and 
mused as he walked onward. “ Who has gone in and 
out of that door?” he thought. “What wary feet, 
what scheming heads, what black hearts, have made 
use of it, and for what purpose? ” His mental ques¬ 
tions were colored from a puritanical standpoint, but 
there was no one to answer them, and he proceeded 
upon his way. 

He soon found himself in the little path of which 
Charles had spoken. Quentin at once took this 
foot-path, and was soon mounting the hill with easy 


86 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


strides. When the path crossed the country road, 
he struck into that and walked on for nearly an 
hour, and when it was nearing half after six o’clock, 
he turned and retraced his steps. Walking for about 
an hour more, he came out upon the top of a hill. 
This hill, he supposed, must overlook the Abbey, 
but he had no way of ascertaining this fact. As he 
walked along the crest between the great giants of 
the wood, he emerged suddenly into a little glade. 
Here,'to his surprise, his eye caught sight of a head¬ 
stone. A headstone rather yellow and moss-grown, 
but it was evident that some one had lately been at 
work upon the inscription. A busy and faithful hand 
had been cleaning some of the letters, and Quentin, 
leaning down, read the word “General.” Following 
this were the letters “ Petr—” “ So this was the rest¬ 

ing place of the General! General Petrofsky, of whom 
Madame had spoken with so much widowed pride. 
There was a second headstone standing there, and 
Quentin made out upon it the name “ Allaire Carle- 
ton, beloved wife of H. Yalery, Esq., aged eighteen 
years and ten months.” Beneath this again was 
carved the words, “She has found peace.” 

The glade was a nearly circular one. The absence 
of branches and leaves argued that it was carefully 
kept, but the grass was long and yellow, and waved 
in the breeze which crept through the wood. Quen¬ 
tin circled the glade about, but only the serried ranks 
of forest trees faced him as he tried in vain to peer 
between their trunks. Being a member of the Alpen 
Klub, a climber of repute and faithful to his cult, he 
was anxious to obtain a view as much as to get his 
bearings. As there seemed to be no way but one by 
which he could attain this object, he proceeded to 


THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 37 

climb a low-branching tree, whose great height seemed 
to overlook the other denizens of the forest. 

Quentin was soon at the top of the tree. Hete his 
eye could range over the Valley of Moncousis, and 
down the hill upon the other side, along a second 
valley, of whose name he Was ignorant. Just below 
him lay the Abbey, and far off, like a winding silver 
thread, ran the little stream, the “river” of Pierre 
Monrouge, in which he had taken his dip, now nearly 
three hours ago. 

Quentin was lost in the beauty of the view. At his 
height he could hear nothing but the sighing of the 
soft morning air in the trees, and the twitter of the 
woodland birds. Suddenly he became conscious of a 
new feeling, a void, which only the coffee of Charles 
could satisfactorily supply. He had suddenly dis¬ 
covered that he was ravenously hungry. He started 
to descend, and as he proceeded he was conscious of 
a far voice calling. Was it for him? He listened. 
No! the name was “ Alixe! Alixe! ” The sound did 
not come to him unfamiliarly. It seemed as if he 
had been hearing that new, sweet name all the morn¬ 
ing long. 

When Quentin had descended half way to the 
ground, he seated himself for a few moments on an 
inviting branch. But for the noise of his own move¬ 
ments he might have heard the sweeping sound of a 
dress across the long grass of the glade Whefe no foot¬ 
fall could be heard, while the rustle made by the skirt 
of the gown wus loud enough to quench to the ear of 
its owner the noise made by his movements among 
the leaves. He did not hear the step Which entered 
the glade beneath, nor the sigh of pleasure with which 
the tall figure sank down at the foot of the very tree 



38 THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


in which, he was sitting. But he was aroused from 
his momentary reverie by hearing his own name. It 
was so sudden that there was nothing to do but re¬ 
main quiet and hope that his presence would not be 
discovered. 

“I-came to speak to you about Mr. Quentin, Alixe; 
there must be no interference there! ” It was Ma- 
dame’s voice. When her sentence was half finished 
Quentin was just about to cry out, “Oh! dear Ma¬ 
dame, don’t talk of me, or I shall hear no good of 
myself,” but the second half of the sentence caused 
him to sit as if he were a part of the tree itself. 

He glanced downward, and for the first time he was 
aware that the younger woman was reclining beneath 
the tree, his tree, and that he was stalled, so to speak, 
by her presence. Madame had evidently just followed 
Alixe into the glade and was standing facing her. She 
was panting breathlessly. 

“I wish you not to interfere, do you hear? Not to 
interfere.” The words had poured forth so rapidly 
that Quentin had no choice but to remain where he 
was. 

Madame’s tone was decidedly sharp and impa¬ 
tient. 

“How can you stalk ahead so? Here I have been 
actually chasing you up the hill. Your stride is like 
a man’s! I couldn’t make you hear me, though I 
called and called! Now, do you hear, Alixe, I will 
have no interference with Mr. Quentin; he is my 
friend.” There was an emphasis on the personal 
pronoun. 

At the first sound of Madame’s voice, Quentin had 
been minded to declare himself, but now he sat as if 
frozen to marble. The least word or sound from him 


THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 39 


and lie should be forced to forsake this Paradise 
within the hour. 

" Interfere, mother? And why should I wish to 
interfere? The man is nothing tome! God knows 
that I have annoyances enough, without bringing 
others upon myself. I cannot very well go away, 
but I will shut myself up, if you wish.” 

"Absurd! Alixe. You know that those are things 
that you cannot do, we should have a fine scandal, but 
I wish you to understand that this is my own particu¬ 
lar friend, and that the less you see of him-” 

“Why should I see anything of him?” exclaimed 
Alixe with a tone and intonation that made Quentin’s 
heart to fail. “ I am sure that he has taken no notice 
of me, and probably will not. Don’t be foolish, 
mother. Ignore me utterly, as probably he will, 
and as I shall ignore him.” 

Quentin in his amaze and mortification did not fail 
to note that the younger called the older woman 
“Mother,” plain and simple. There was no playful 
“ Mamasha ” now, no “ Madame,” and no caress in the 
word which did duty for both. 

“ You remember Baron Olsten, ” continued Madame, 
in her high voice, which had suddenly become shrill 
and unpleasant, very different from the voice in which 
she had said “ You dear! ” to Quentin in the chalet 
rooms the night before. “You remember also per¬ 
haps Mr. Lauderdale, and the Marquis de Gelcon- 
court-” 

“Was it my fault, mother? Their attentions were 
hateful to me.” 

“—And Mr. le Maurier-” 

“ Mother! he seemed to me more like a detective 
than anything else. He was so inquisitive and-” 


40 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“—And then there was Henry Ware. 5 ’ 

“ Mother! do not insult me! I never looked at the 
little man, I assure you. Why, moth-” 

"Do say Mamasha!” said Madame, looking anx¬ 
iously over her shoulder. 

“Mamasha,” said Alixe, with no change of tone, 
“ I never looked at that underbred little man. Gartha 
caught some of his sayings, and I was obliged to cor¬ 
rect her for it. I never object to your asking whom 
you will to the Abbey, but I must confess I was sur¬ 
prised when-” 

“You seemed to be very attractive to him at 
ledst—— 5 ” 

“Mother! Mamasha! can I help that? I should 
not know Mr. Henry Ware if he were to walk into the 
glade this very moment.” 

“Well, he looked at you at all events.” 

“And can I help that? Do not annoy me with 
these silly and hateful suspicious about people in 
whom I take no interest. Do be more serious. Do 
respect me more. Remember the conditions which 
surround me, mother; you of all people in the world 
certainly should not forget.” There was a piteous 
emphasis on the word “you.” Quentin’s heart sank 
still lower at these last words. “ And if I am unfortu¬ 
nate enough to-” Alixe broke off and threw her¬ 

self upon the grass, her face hidden in her hands. 

“ Oh, my dear God! ” she cried aloud. “ Was ever 
any poor creature more utterly alone in the world 
than I? ” 

“ You are not alone, Alixe, if you would comport 
yourself like other people. Yoti have Bruno.” 

“ Bruiio! ” The word so uttered told Quentin more 
than an hour of explanation could have done. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 41 

Alixe Sat upright and leaned her hand against the 
tree where Quentin was crouched above her. She 
turned about slowly and looked at Madaine. Quentin 
found himself gazing down upoti her as if he must 
read her very thoughts. He wished that he knew 
what was in that look to cause Madame to turn hur¬ 
riedly away. Quentin was horribly conscious that he 
had tumbled upon a secret which was not intended for 
his ears. He was in terror for fear that some falling 
twig or leaf should cause one or the other to look up¬ 
ward. 

Alixe withdrew her eyes from Madame and sat with 
her hat pushed back, her gaze fixed upon the white 
headstone where Quentin had read the name of Allaire 
Carleton, beloved wife of H. Yalery, Esq. She ab¬ 
sently pulled a stem of grass to pieces and threw the 
little blue blossoms on the ground. 

Quentin’s position, awkwatd at best, was becoming 
almost unbearable. He felt that if they did not soon 
go away he must discover himself and come down 
from the tree. Suddenly, to relieve the situation, the 
Abbey bell clanged out. The sound was sweet. It 
rang across the valley and up the hill. Madame 
turned away with an exclamation of annoyance. 

“ I had no idea that it was so late! Will you come 
down? Half past eight! What will they think of 
me?” 

Alixe arose. She said nothing. She had taken off 
the Russian hat, and her head was bare. Quentin 
saw the sun shining on the full waves of her hair, and 
upon the silver combs pushed forward at the sides. 

“Will you remember?” asked Madame, half turn¬ 
ing at the edge of the glade. 

“I will remember,” answered Alixe. 


42 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


Nothing more was said. Alixe paced slowly down 
the slope, her trailing robe rolling the falling leaves 
over and over with an early autumnal sound. Ma¬ 
dame ran ahead, and was soon tick-tacking down the 
hard forest road. 

When they were well out of sight and hearing, 
Quentin arose from his cramped posture in the tree. 
He descended slowly and dropped to the place where 
the young figure of Alixe had rested. He seated 
himself where she had sat, and picked up from the 
ground the blue-eyed grass which her long slim fingers 
had pulled unconsciously to pieces. 

“ Poor soul! ” he said aloud. “ Poor soul! ” and 
was astonished to find that he had spoken. He put 
the blossom in his breast pocket, and then with a 
“ Why not? ” took it boldly out and thrust it within 
the buttonhole of his coat. Then he, in his turn, 
slowly descended the hill. 


nx 


When Quentin rang at the door in the wall and was 
admitted by Charles, he saw at a glance that there 
were not many persons at the table. He advanced 
along the terrace, curious to know who would be 
seated there. The Archbishop from his place upon 
Madame’s right gave him a kindly, if a stately bow, 
and others nearer him looked up and bent their heads 
slightly. Alixe was in her seat at the farther end of 
the table, the Russian hat still upon her head, and 
Gartha was close beside her. Madame was voluble, 
and warmly welcoming. She pressed Quentin’s hand. 
Alixe did not raise her eyes. She was engaged in 
preparing some food for Gartha. Many places were 
empty which Quentin remembered to have seen oc¬ 
cupied the night before by prettily dressed and black- 
coated figures. 

“ The Baroness and Miss Tliorndyke take their cof¬ 
fee in their rooms, Charles,” said Madame. “Has 
Marie Monrouge served them? Mr. Le Brun and Mr. 
Jennings have gone to town, you know, your Grace, 
and Mrs. Jennings and her secretary never appear at 
early breakfast.” Charles and Eugene were occupied 
in passing the cups of coffee which Madame was en¬ 
gaged in preparing, cups so large as to deserve the 
name of bowls. Great plates of bread were set at 
various places down the length of the table, and pitch- 


44 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


ers of steaming chocolate at intervals, tliat each one 
might serve himself. Silver bowls and dishes, heaped 
high respectively with strawberries, sugar, and iced 
rolls of butter, held their own jjositions also, and bot¬ 
tles of St. Galmier and Evian were placed between 
every two of the guests. 

“An egg? ” asked Madame, in her sweetest of high 
voices, beaming brightly on Quentin. 

“ Two, please, or three! ” said Quentin, endeavor¬ 
ing to smile so broadly as to feel certain, later, that 
he had overdone the effort to make his whereabouts 
of a half hour earlier unsuspected. 

Charles opened his mouth and stood regarding the 
strange Monsieur. 

“ Two,” he said. “ Or even three! ” He went tow¬ 
ard the door which opened into the kitchen. “ Two 
or even three. The hens of the Chateau Bref lay but 
one egg at a time. Two, or eveii three! Does the 
strange Monsieur imagine that the cuisine of the 
Chateau Bref holds three eggs for each guest. Sixty 
eggs in a morning? Two, or even three. Oh! mon 
Dieu!” 

Quentin applied himself to his breakfast with the 
devotion of a starved pedestrian. 

There was no sound for a few moments but the 
trickling of coffee into the great colored bowls, or 
Eugene’s “Sucre, Monsieur? Sucre, Madame? Cafe 
au lait, Monsieur? Ah! du noir! Bien, Monsieur, 
bien! C'estga!” 

The silence was broken by a footstep overhead. 
Then a sound as if a chair had suddenly fallen. 
Quentin involuntarily raised his eyes. As he did 
so, he catiglit sight of Alixe rising abruptly from her 
seat at the further end of the table. She stood for a 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 45 


moment, irresolute, listening, and then sat down 
again. 

“Who is in Monsieur Quentin’s rooms, Eugene?” 
asked Madame in her high key. 

“It is no one, Mamaslia.” Alixe had again arisen. 
“ Rather, I will go and see if Mr. Quentin will allow 
me.” 

“Sit still, Alixe,” called Madame, with heightened 
color, “and do take off that dreadful hat.” 

“It—it—is the—other—maid,” stammered Quen¬ 
tin, arraying himself unconsciously on what he felt at 
once to be the side of Alixe. 

(t We have no other maid but Nanette. She is 
Alixe’s maid. Perhaps Henri went up to- v 

Alixe with no reply to Madame had left her chair 
and was now at the chalet stairs. 

Quentin arose also with a careless “ I will go and 
see,” and followed slowly to the archway. Madame 
looked annoyed and half arose, but at the Arch¬ 
bishop’s calm “Do not disturb yourself, my friend,” 
she seated herself. Quentin thought that he knew 
the cause of Alixe’s disappearance, though he hardly 
knew why he was following her. He mounted the 
stairs lingeringly, reached the floor of his bedroom 
and haltingly entered. 

The door which led into the dressing room was un¬ 
bolted. He paused, then passed with increasing hesi¬ 
tancy toward the doorway. He wished to be within 
call should he be needed, and yet, he was not at home; 
a stranger here. He listened, but heard no voices. 
He entered the middle room • it was empty. As he 
halted, again irresolute, Alixe came hastening toward 
him from the third room, the so-called closet. She 
breathed as if she had been running. She had a key 



46 THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


in her hand. She walked swiftly through the disor¬ 
dered rooms, Quentin following her. She paused for 
a moment on the landing outside his door. 

“ I—I—thought that Mamasha had put you in the 
left wing,” she said. “I made a mistake. I hope 
that you will pardon it.” 

“Pardon? Pardon what, Mad-” 

“All,” she replied. She gave him a look pregnant 
with meaning and hastened down the stairs. 

As Quentin again took his seat, he heard Alixe 
laughing gayly. Perhaps it was his late experience 
which made the laughter seem forced to him. 

“Only the same old thing, Mamasha,” she called 
down the length of the table. “ I hardly know whether 
it is the wind or the rats, and in broad daylight too! ” 

“ I will answer for it that there is no rat behind 
your arras, Madame,” said the Archbishop, smiling at 
his neighbour. 

“Hola! Hola! What a fine company have we 
here! And, pray, who are all these good people?” 

There was a slight suspicion of an Hibernian accent 
in the good natured tone. 

“ Yalery ! ” said Madame in an explanatory whisper 
to the Archbishop. “Bear with him if you can, your 
Grace.” 

“ The Bastaquouere? ” asked the Archbishop under 
his breath, with an indulgent smile. “ I am delighted! 
I am in luck! ” 

“Yes,” said Madame, with a sigh of pity for her¬ 
self, “ the Bastaquouere! ” 

“Papachen! papachen!” It was Gartha who had 
arisen from her chair and had flown at this bird of 
gorgeous plumage. “When did you get here? You 
said you would come back last night.” 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 47 


“Petite polissonne, come back to your eating,” 
screamed Mademoiselle, wlio loved to air her Eng¬ 
lish. 

The new arrival sauntered up to the table. The 
sweetest of odours came with him, preceded him al¬ 
most. 

“I hate a perfumed man,” said Madame in an 
undertone to Quentin. 

“You promised to come back last night, Valery,” 
said Gartha; “ I watched and watched-” 

“ So I did, little one, but, you know, I was born to 
break promises.” 

He seated himself as near Alixe and as far from 
Madame as circumstances would permit. 

“He doesn’t wear an electric light in his scarf pin,” 
whispered Miss Jenkins to Quentin. “ I am so dis¬ 
appointed ! I had at the least expected that! You 
know, like the little man who goes round thimble-rig¬ 
ging in the Paris cafes.” 

“I don’t know this gentleman as well as I do the 
other,” answered Quentin, “but I should say that he 
was a touch above that.” 

“ Well, I suppose there is no one who has not a 
mission in life,” returned the speaker, “either con¬ 
sciously or unconsciously. His seems to be to keep 
other men up to the mark in the way of neatness of 
person and dress. Heaven forbid that they should 
emulate his magnificence and variety of color and 
adornment.” 

“Gorgeous being, though, he is,” broke in Mary 
Thorndyke; “ there is nothing, well, what you would 
call common about him; he is-” 

“Most uncommon, I should say,” returned Miss 
Jenkins. 


48 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


He was a butterfly of the first and clearest water, 
this Rastaquouere. He was immaculate. Most men 
appear fresh and spotless on a summer morning, but 
the dazzling snowiness of the newcomer’s linen caused 
each man at the table to cast a hasty glance downward 
at his own shirt front. The waistcoat of the new¬ 
comer was of pale green, ornamented with large white 
pearl buttons, and was crossed by a conspicuously 
heavy chain of gold. His light grey coat was of thin 
flannel, and his white trousers were of the same ma¬ 
terial. Upon his feet he wore low shoes of fine rus¬ 
set leather, and when he moved sufficiently his yellow 
socks, clocked with blue, showed a studied care for 
his entire person. His necktie of delicate pink, his 
sleeve links, his studs, the middle one of which showed 
a large opal set with diamonds, his finger rings, which 
were many and blazed like the constellations of the 
heavens, his almost crimson face, short nose, china 
blue eyes, and red, well kept moustache, plentifully 
sjmnkled with grey, made a combination not easily 
forgotten. 

Gartha struggled at once with sinuous persistent 
motion up to his knees, and wound her arms round 
his large neck, thereby disarranging the necktie, and 
creasing the waistcoat, which had heretofore sat so 
smoothly over the portly figure beneath. 

The newcomer sat patiently, while the child caressed 
him, pulling his moustache apart that she might im¬ 
print a kiss directly upon his lips; drawing from his 
well-kept fingers his many gorgeous and enormous 
rings, and hanging them upon her own little paws, 
from which they fell one after the other; jerking his 
heavy watch from his pocket, and putting it to her 
ear, insisting upon knowing what was the time in 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 49 


Africa at the moment. Then denuding him of the 
chain also, she hung it round her own brown neck. 
Suddenly the victim lifted the jewel-bedecked little 
creature from his knee, seated her on the gravel be¬ 
side his chair, and held out his bowl for some coffee. 

There was silence for a while, disturbed only by 
the breaking of an egg, or a murmured sentence, from 
some one, in the ear of a near neighbour. 

Valery set down his empty cup. “ How Alixe spoils 
you! ” said he, looking down on the dark little head 
by his side. 

Gartlia arose and stood by the table, glittering like 
the Queen of Sheba. 

"You spoil her, Valery,” said Alixe, laughing. 

"So does every one,” said Valery, in a pleasant, 
tolerant voice. 

"You spoil me yourself, Alixe,” said Gartha. 
"Mamasha says you do.” 

" I like to spoil you, ” said Alixe. " You are the only 
one I have to spoil.” 

"Did you never have a little girl of your own, 
Alixe? ” asked Gartha. 

"No,” answered Alixe, unembarrassed by this 
pointed question and looking straight into Gartlia’s 
eyes. " If I had, I should have wanted her to be just 
like Gartha.” At this compliment Gartha laughed 
gayly. 

There was a short silence, broken in a moment by 
Gartha. 

“Valery,” she said, "what is a Rastaquouere? ” 

Valery set down his second cup carefully, wiped 
his moustache and leaned back so far that there seemed 
to be danger of his going over on to the gravel behind 
him. He turned his head toward the end of the table 
4 


50 THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


where Madame, having caught the question, sat look¬ 
ing down and growing somewhat red. 

“Mamasha,” he called, “you taught her that.” 

“I did not, Valery,” came back in Madame’s high 
key. 

“Well, then, she heard you say it.” 

“ I am not responsible for all that Gartha hears, 
Valery. Alixe indulges the child to such an ex¬ 
tent-” 

“But she heard you say it, Mamasha. Now, 
didn’t she? ” 

The Archbishop’s keen eyes were fixed on Madame. 

She hesitated—“Well, well—” she finally answered 
—“and are you not, Valery, dear? ” 

“ You made her think it a term of reproach, Ma¬ 
masha.” 

“Oh, no, no! Valery, dear,” called Madame down 
the vista of glass and silver. “But—but—and isn’t 
it—well, you know—rather—Valery, dear? ” 

“Bather what? A term of reproach? No; I have 
had no cause to think so, Mamasha, me jool! and 
neither will you when you see into my boxes. Don’t 
you think your views are somewhat—ah—colored by 
circumstances? Oh, fie! Mamasha; oh, fie!” 

Valery’s comic tone of reproof brought a smile, if 
a concealed one, to every lip. It somewhat discon¬ 
certed Madame. She was put so entirely in the wrong 
before those with whom she wished to seem entirely 
in the right. She glanced at Quentin, who was smil¬ 
ing more at Valery’s manner and brogue than at the 
subject of his words. She reached out her hand, has¬ 
tily seized a glass of water and as hurriedly swal¬ 
lowed it. 

“ Poor old Mamasha! ” said Valery. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 51 


Madame’s clieek flushed, but she made some trivial 
remark to the Archbishop, and then turned to Quen¬ 
tin. 

“ You have no idea what the care of such a house 
as this entails upon me, Mr. Quentin,” she said. 

"Dear old Mamasha! ” exclaimed Yalery again. 

“ I am sure you are more than good to ask us all 
here and give yourself so much trouble about us,” re¬ 
plied Quentin. 

She turned a pleased face toward him. 

“Dear friend,” she said, “you are too kind.” 

Meanwhile Gartlia was clamoring: “Your boxes! 
Your boxes! When are they coming? When are 
they coming? ” 

“They are coming,” said Yalery, resuming his in¬ 
terrupted meal. 

The Archbishop leaned forward with interest. 

“Boxes?” he said. “Ha—lium! Boxes? He is 
a good son of the church, is he not, Madame? ” 

“I wish that Alixe were as good a daughter,” said 
Madame. 

“ They are talking about us down there,” said Gar- 
tha, in plainly audible tones. 

The Archbishop cleared his throat in a politely re¬ 
pressed manner. 

“I—I—was saying to—to—ahem! your aunt, my 
dear, that I wish your—the Duchess were as good a 
daughter of the church as your father is a son.” 

“ Aunt! ” exclaimed Yalery in an undertone. “ Aunt, 
eh! That’s a new reading,” and then in a voice that 
caused his neighbor, the Baroness, to wince, as if at 
the sound of a drum, “that’s what I’m always telling 
her, your Grace. Isn’t it, Alixe? ” 

“ Yes, you are certainly! ” smiled Alixe. 


52 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


"I wish that you were a daughter of Mother 
Church,” repeated the Archbishop. 

“The old question, your Grace,” said Alixe, look¬ 
ing brightly at him. 

“ She shall be in time, your Grace,” said Madame, 
assuringly. 

“Do not make any promises for me, Mamasha,” 
said Alixe, with great seriousness. “ It is all that I 
can do to keep my own promises.” 

Quentin’s eyes were drawn to where Alixe sat. It 
seemed to him that all eyes were attracted toward her, 
that at whichever end she seated herself, that end must 
ever be the head of the table. She sat, her elbows, 
from which the loose sleeves had fallen away, resting 
on the board before her, her fingers clasped under¬ 
neath a very determined looking chin. He mentally 
decided that here was a personality which no one 
could coerce, least of all Madame, Madame with her 
weak, pretty mouth, and her sweetly shrill or petulant 
tones, according as to who there was to hear. 

To Quentin it seemed as if Madame were ever 
silently apologizing to this tall girl called Alixe, who 
never reproached her. The younger woman met the 
elder ever with a pleasant smile. She said little about 
the orders for the household—in fact, she did not in¬ 
terfere. Madame was apparently the mistress here. 

He wondered why the younger woman did not show 
her splendid height. She was taller than any woman 
there; as tall as most men. Quentin’s fine height of 
an inch over six feet did not look down upon her by 
more than three inches. She carried her shoulders 
drawn upward. Her head a little down drooped, but 
occasionally, when for some reason she seemed to for¬ 
get herself in admiration of a thrilling tale, or in an 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 53 


involuntary greeting to a friend, she raised her head 
and straightened herself to her full height. 

“ Gartlia, take your arms off the table,” said Yalery. 

“ But Alixe—” began Gartlia. 

“ Alixe is different,” said Yalery. 

Alixe was lost in thought. She did not appear con¬ 
scious of the discussion, and Quentin acknowledged 
to himself that all that she did was indeed done with 
a difference. 

“ How many nationalities are represented round this 
table! ” remarked Miss Thorndyke. 

“Yes,” said Miss Spencer, “and in France, too, 
and not one Frenchman or woman present—if we ex¬ 
cept the servants, to be sure.” 

“His Grace,” said Alixe, looking up, “you forget 
him.” 

“Oh, yes! The Archbishop, certainly.” 

“And the Baroness,” said Yalery. 

“She is an Italian,” said Miss Spencer. 

“And Mademoiselle,” said Yalery. 

“Yes, but no more.” 

“And my Uncle Bruno,” said Gartha. “Ah, bah! 
how I hate my Uncle Bruno! ” 

Every one but Alixe showed their amusement by 
laughing at Gartha’s speech. 

“ Why do you give me an oeillade like that, Alixe? ” 

“You are in your Uncle Bruno’s house, Gartha,” 
said Alixe, gravely. “ He need not be included.” 

“ Dieu merci! ” said Gartha openly. 

“‘ Bruno’s house! ’ I like that! ” said Yalery aside 
to Miss Spencer. 

Gartha, opening her eyes very wide, exclaimed, “ I 
thought it was Mamasha’s! Norn de Dieu!” 

“So every one thinks,” confided Yalery to Miss 


54 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


Spencer, “ and the funny part of it is she never con¬ 
tradicts ’em. I think she has begun to believe it her¬ 
self." 

“Bruno’s!” returned Miss Spencer in an under¬ 
tone, which was full of subtle meaning. “ That is too 
good." 

“Your Uncle Bruno is not a Frenchman, ” said Miss 
Thorndyke; “ he is a Spaniard!" 

“If Bruno had had his way," continued Miss Spen¬ 
cer in Yalery’s ear, “there wouldn’t be much of it left 
by now. I hear that before Mamasha married him to 
Alixe he had dissipated half the property." 

“She needs a guardian," said Valery. “They all 
do, in fact, Mamasha as well as the rest of ’em." He 
looked down at the tablecloth. “ I see she’s got a 
new one," he said in an undertone behind his mous¬ 
tache. 

“She is always getting a new one," returned Miss 
Spencer, watching Alixe to see that she did not hear. 

“ He’s a well set-up chap. Where did she pick him 
up?" 

“At some watering place, I believe." 

“That’s where she always gets ’em," said Valery. 
“ She corresponds with ’em and gets ’em down here, 
and then makes ’em fetch and carry, but, then, she’s 
still a fairly good-looking little woman by lamplight 
and under a veil, is Mamasha." 

“She has a phenomenal back,” acquiesced Miss 
Jenkins. “You might take her for nineteen if you 
walk behind her. How old is she, Mr. Valery? ” 

“ Who? Mamasha? Let — me — see. Mamasha 
must be—well, Mamasha must be all of forty-three; 
she was married at seventeen. Yes, that’s gospel, I 
know it." 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 55 


“ You were talking of tlie nationalities represented 
here,” said Miss Thorndyke from across the table, 
breaking in on this confidential conversation. “ Al¬ 
most every known nationality. Russian-” 

“Where is a Russian? ” asked Yalerv. 

“Madame.” 

“Oh, is she a Russian?” 

“Is she not? ” 

“American, pure and simple.” 

“Where does she get her accent then? ” whispered 
Miss Spencer. 

“ Where she gets most of the rest of her make-be¬ 
lieves,” confided Yalery, who was chafing under Ma- 
dame’s ridicule of him. “ Where she gets her lisp 
and her baby ways. They take some people in, but 
they can’t-” 

“I’m an American girl,” said Miss Thorndyke, who 
looked much older than Madame, “ but I’m often taken 
for English.” 

“Girl, I think you said?” inquired the Rasta- 
quouere. “Oh, I was only rounding out your sen¬ 
tence for you,” as he saw the angry glance which 
Miss Thorndyke flashed back at him. “ Well, I’m 
never taken for an Englishman, thank God.” 

“No, you would hardly be that,” returned Miss 
Thorndyke, eyeing him critically. 

“See that now! Talk to a woman about her 
a-” 

Here Yalery was interrupted, much to Miss Thorn- 
dyke’s relief. 

Gartha was standing by Yalery’s side. She leaned 
over and looked proudly up and down the table. 

“Rastaquouere,” she said, “is only my Papa’s 
branche de commerce—affaire, occupation, ah, bah! 


56 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


How I hate that French. His real name is Hilary 
Valery.” 

“ It might as well be Alibone-crackibone! ” said Ma¬ 
dame in a low tone to Quentin, who found himself 
smiling at the quaint conceit. “ Valery’s name always 
reminds me of the way American children do what 
they call ‘ counting out, ’ ” continued Madame, who 
had a humor of her own and a grudge against the sub¬ 
ject of her remarks. 

“ One ry— twoe ry— zickery — zan—Hilery—Valery — 
Don't — you—know ! ” 

Quentin was tempted to burst into hilarious laugh¬ 
ter, but the proprieties permitted only a contraction of 
the corners of his mouth. The last words were jerked 
out by Madame with the same emphasis as those 
which had preceded them. The Archbishop leaned 
toward the reciter trying to follow her. He knew a 
little English, but his acquaintance was with English 
books and not with the language fluently spoken, 
least of all with American jokes. 

“ Je ne comprends pas,” he said, with a puzzled 
look. 

Madame repeated her words, but they were as 
the language of the Chinese to the prelate’s unac¬ 
customed ear. Whereupon Madame entered into 
a lengthy explanation in French, in which she 
was quite at home. The Archbishop was a close 
listener to the painstaking sentences of Madame. 
When she came to the words “ Alibone crackibone ” 
he laughed irrepressibly, repeating the sounds sev¬ 
eral times, rolling them over upon his tongue with 
gusto* 

"They are laughing at us down there,” said Gartlia 
to her father. Then, raising her voice and looking at 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 57 


Madame defiantly, she added, “ It is a beautiful name, 
though Mamasha thinks No.” 

“ So it is, dear! ” said Alixe, patting Gartha’s lit¬ 
tle brown claw. 

“You lose, Mamasha,” shouted Yalery along the 
vista of bowls and syphons. 

“ That dreadful man! ” murmured Madame. Then 
in a louder tone, “ So it is, Gartha dear! ” 

“You win, dear old Mamasha,” shouted Yalery 
again. 

“Don’t wait,’’said Madame, bowing down the table, 
uncertain what turn Yalery’s remarks would take next. 
“Breakfast is an informal meal, you know.” Most 
of the seats were vacated at the permission so gra¬ 
ciously given, the guests sauntering along the terrace 
by twos and threes. 


IV. 


Quentin found liimself standing at the open grille, 
in front of which the carriage was waiting. “ Par- 
kere,” the English coachman, whom Quentin shortly 
discovered was saluted in his own country by the 
name of Barker, sat on the box, whip in hand, stiff 
as a statue. Occasionally, it is true, he permitted him¬ 
self a little liberty, somewhat relaxing his truly Brit¬ 
ish vertebrae, for what did them Erenchies h’under¬ 
stand of coachmen, and what did they compre’end of 
’osses he would like to know? Barker had been de¬ 
graded into the cinnamon-colored coat so dear to the 
hearts of the Parisian noblesse, and how could he 
have the moral courage to preserve the stolidity of 
the imported English coachmen, when his mongrel 
appearance was so decidedly against the supposition 
that he was one of them? 

“Parkere est smart, tres smart,’’remarked the Bar¬ 
oness. The Baroness, if reduced to making intermin¬ 
able visits to her wealthy friends, so that Monsieur le 
Baron need not be docked of his daily glasses of ab¬ 
sinthe as he sat in front of Maxim’s, got a sort of 
equivalent from those loiterings of his which was the 
bringing home to her by the Baron of the latest Pari¬ 
sian slang learned at Maxim’s and which she could 
retail to her friends. 

“ Holloa! that’s my old friend Barker! ” exclaimed 


THE AKCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 59 


Valery. “ Barker, your horses are too fat. All Erencli 
horses are too fat except those little rats on the Champs 
Elysees.” 

Barker smiled appreciatively and commendingly. 

Valery stood contemplating the carriage, the horses, 
the coachman, all got up in the very latest French 
idea of style. 

“ Who are those people over across the valley, Bar¬ 
ker? ” asked he. “ Those who drive such a swell turn¬ 
out? ” 

“Dose vith ze boule dogue,” added the Baroness. 

“ I believe they did have a bull dog. They were 
what you would call tres smart, Baroness. Who are 
they, Barker? ” 

Barker turned fraternally toward this Irish gentle¬ 
man who knew what good horses were. 

“You wouldn’t know ’em, sir,” he said. 

“I wouldn’t know ’em? Indeed, then, would I. 
They might give me a mount now and then.” 

“No, sir!” reiterated Barker. “You wouldn’t 
know ’em. There’s plenty of mounts in h’our stables, 
sir. You wouldn’t know them parties, sir. They 
jobs their ’osses, sir.” 

Valery chuckled. “ I job my own, ” he said, “ when 
I have any.” 

Barker allowed the iron in his back to relax. He 
leaned slightly toward the Bastaquouere and said, 
“Mr. Valery, sir, can I speak with you a minute?” 

The men were putting the Archbishop’s modest lug¬ 
gage on behind. 

“ What is it, Barker? Don’t they pay you enough? 
That’s Madame. You must go to the Duchess, 
she-” 

Barker leaned down confidentially, if stiffly. 


60 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“H’l asks you as a gentleman, Mr. Yalerv, who 
know wliat tilings is, not as li’I hever wishes to com¬ 
plain, but h’l asks you as a gentleman, in confidence, 
if you really do think they pays me enough, an’ me 
wearin’ a coat like that ’’—Barker stretched out his 
arm and contemplated its cinnamon colored covering. 

Yalery took the coachman in with critical, compre¬ 
hensive look. 

“Barker,” he said finally, with solemn tone, “it 
would be hard to keep one’s self unspotted of the 
world in such a coat as that. It is—really—awful! 
A man loses his self respect-” 

“ Yes, sir, an’ takes to drink an’ loses control of the 
’osses.” 

“ I should resign from the British House of Lords 
if I were forced to wear such a coat as that. Be pa¬ 
tient until I have a talk with Madame, and when you 
come back from the station, I will tell vou her ver¬ 
dict. 

“A cinnamon top-coat,” said Yalery, laughing over 
Barker’s confidences a little later. “ You can fairly 
smell him. ‘Isles of the Blest,’ and all that sort of 
thing. ‘ Where Africa’s spicy breezes blow soft o’er 
Ceylon’s isle.’ They’d put him in a show in Lon¬ 
don.” 

“ What is it? ” Madame asked of Charles, who was 
standing persistently behind her chair, and interrupt¬ 
ing her last words with the Archbishop, for they had 
been left alone at the table. 

“The carriage for his Grace, Madame.” 

“Is the luggage in? ” asked Madame. 

“‘Must I thus leave thee, Paradise? ’ ” quoted the 
prelate regretfully. “ Is it possible that my hour has 


THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 61 


come? ” He arose and walked to tlie edge of the ter¬ 
race. He stood looking down for a moment on the 
ruin, and the valley, now smiling in the sunshine. 
Then he turned to Madame, who had followed him. 

“Will you send the Duchess here?” he said. 

Madame approached Alixe, who was standing, with 
Gartlia hanging to her arm, a little further along the 
terrace. 

Alixe turned at once, and Quentin fancied that sliei 
cast a half perceptible glance at him, but he did not 
move toward her, neither did he follow her with his 
eyes. 

Some of the guests had seated themselves beneath 
the broad tree under which Quentin had seen Madame 
and the Archbishop talking on the previous night. 
Valery, returning from his conference with Barker, 
suddenly seized Gartlia up from the ground. She 
struggled violently, to the great disarrangement of 
her clothing. Some of the rings slipped off her fin¬ 
gers and rolled in the gravel. 

“I hate money for money’s sake,” said Madame in 
a low tone to Quentin, whom she had joined. He 
hardly heard what she had said. He was uncon¬ 
sciously straining his ears for a word from that tall 
pair standing beyond the great tree’s shade. The 
sun shone down on them and enveloped them with a 
brightness which was dazzling. Finally, they began 
to move slowly toward the entrance gate. Quentin 
caught some low indistinct words as they passed, him 
by. He thought that they sounded like “I cannot 
promise.” 

Whereupon the Archbishop bowed a cold good-bye 
to Alixe, took Madame’s soft, warm hand in his own 
and held it just a moment longer than friendliness re- 


62 THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


quired, pressed something into the palm of Charles, 
and was gone. As he disappeared, Madame called 
to the Rastaquouere. 

“Valery,” she said sharply, “I wish you would 
come here a moment.” 

“ Dear old Mamasha can’t live without her young¬ 
est, can she?” said Valery, raising his weighty figure 
out of the easy chair, where he had just seated him¬ 
self, to enjoy his cigar with the men of the party. 
He approached Madame slowly, keeping his cigar 
alight, but when he reached the place where she was 
standing, holding it down under cover of his hand. 

“What is it, Mamasha? ” asked he good naturedly. 

“Valery, there is one habit that I wish you would 
break yourself of.” Madame spoke sharply. There 
was a red spot on each soft cheek. 

“Gracious! How handsome you look, Mamasha. 
I have half a mind to kiss you.” Madame, somewhat 
mollified, continued: 

“ I do wish, Valery, that you would not address me 
as you do.” 

“How? Mamasha? AIways called you Mamasha. 
Thought you liked it. We’re both too old to change 
now, I fancy. What shall I call you. Moth-” 

Madame’s brow had grown darker with each suc¬ 
ceeding word of his speech. 

“ No! No! No! Don’t be stupid. You wilfully 
misunderstand me, I think, sometimes.” 

“ What’s the woman driving at! ” exclaimed the cul¬ 
prit, gazing about him with a mystified air. 

“You know what you said, perfectly, Valery.” 

“When?” 

“At breakfast.” 

“I said, poor, dear Mamasha.” 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 63 


“No, Valery, you did not. It is the other adjec¬ 
tive which you used to which I seriously object.” 

“I didn’t say damn, did I? ” asked Valery, all in¬ 
nocence. 

“ No, Valery, you did not. Offensive as such words 
are to me, that would have been much less offensive 
thanwli at you did say. You said ‘dear old Mamasha, 
poor old Mamasha. ’ I have said before that I dislike 
this mode of address.” 

“ Why! I say ‘poor old Alixe, 5 often, ” said Valery, 
justifying himself as best he could, “ and I have even 
been known to say ‘ dear old Gartha. ’ ” 

“ Very well! If they like it; but I must say that I 
do not.” 

“Do you mind if I say ‘ dear little Mamasha,’ or 
* poor little Mamasha? 

“No, Valery, not in the least. It is the adjective, 
as I told you, which makes all the difference. Now, 
I beg of you, remember.” 

“I will remember, Mamasha, certainly,” replied 
her son-in-law, as he retraced his steps to the seat from 
which she had summoned him. His words were not 
very distinguishable, for he was endeavoring to re¬ 
light his cigar by drawing upon the end between his 
lips. He repeated, as if learning a lesson, “ The ad¬ 
jective must not agree with the object to whom it is 
applied, or the object will seriously disagree with 
me.” 

“ Will you come to my room, Alixe? ” said Madame 
as Valery walked away. 

“ Had you not better come to mine? ” returned Alixe 
in the tone of one who preferred her own vantage 
ground. Madame, seeming vanquished already, ac¬ 
quiesced. 


64 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“ That dreadful room with the iron doors! ” said 
Miss Spencer, with a becoming shudder. “ Have you 
ever seen it, Mr. Quentin? ” 

Quentin, who was in no mood for a morning tete-a- 
tete with Miss Spencer, answered “No” almost 
shortly, and sauntered away, his hands in his pock¬ 
ets. He loitered about the further end of the terrace 
for a half hour, talking with no one, smoking vio¬ 
lently, wondering when Madame would come to re¬ 
deem her promise and show him the ruins, wonder¬ 
ing also whether she had taken Alixe away to coerce 
her into the Archbishop’s desires. Finally Gartha 
came flying along the esplanade. She came abruptly 
up to Quentin. 

“ Mamasha says that she has mal a la tete—Ah, bah! 
that French!—ache in the head, and cannot come down 
again this morning.” 

“That child’s manners leave much to be desired,” 
remarked Miss Spencer in an audible tone. Miss 
Spencer was making a water color of the Abbey. She 
had moved her easel nearer Quentin’s end of the ter¬ 
race. 

“Trees are green, not blue,” said Gartha, glancing 
over Miss Spencer’s shoulder. Then, looking at 
Quentin, “ Yalery will come to take you for the fish¬ 
ing.” 

“I’m sure that it is very kind of your father-” 

began Quentin. 

“Oh, don’t mention it,” shouted the Rastaquouere, 
as he issued from the little door near the gate. 

Quentin remembered to have once gone in New York 
to see a so-called “lightning-change artist,’’and as he 
surveyed Yalery’s very appropriate fishing costume, 
he could not help a feeling of wonder as to whether 


THE AKCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 65 


lie liacl made his fortune in that way. He found his 
new acquaintance a jolly, good natured soul, with 
plenty of Irish wit, much shrewdness, and a genuine 
love of sport. The talk was principally of fish and 
their habits, but, though the two anglers whipped the 
stream, they found little to reward their endeavors. 
The day was too sunny, Yalery declared. The head¬ 
ache of Madame he commented on freely—too freely, 
Quentin thought, to an entire stranger like himself, 
but these comments met with no response from him. 
He could but be amused at Yalery’s frankness, al¬ 
though he was not of the sort who discuss one’s host 
with comparative strangers, or, in fact, with any one. 


A paie of hungry men entered the door of the cha¬ 
teau as the breakfast bell clanged forth its grateful 
summons. It seemed to Quentin as he ran along 
toward his rooms to make himself presentable that 
these people were forever occupied in the business of 
eating. He came down to find Madame seated at her 
place, smiling, but somewhat red about the eyes. 
The guests came straggling along, one or two at a 
time. Alixe was in her seat opposite Madame, at the 
extreme end of the table. Gartha was in hers, and 
across from Gartha upon the right of Alixe sat a black 
robed figure. It was the priest whom Quentin had 
seen twice before during his short stay, once upon the 
road, and again asleep in the mysterious little dress¬ 
ing room. The breakfast was but just under way 
when Valery came walking quickly from the chateau 
along the terrace. He was, as ever, immaculate, but 
the pale green waistcoat had given way to a knitted 
one of chocolate and rose, the pink cravat to one of 
blue, the red shoes to shoes of tan, and the suit to a 
combination of white duck and a light brown frock 
coat. This was not altogether so startling a costume 
as the one of the early morning, but picturesque in 
its way. 

“Hola! Bob, how are you?” nodded Valery, ex^ 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 67 


tending his left hand unceremoniously to the priest. 
“Can’t take a meal, it seems, without some of your 
craft to bless the food. Had his Grace at early break¬ 
fast.” 

The priest dropped Valery’s hand, started, and 
looked at Alixe. 

“It is true,” she said, “but he has returned to 
Paris.” 

Just here there was heard the sound of approach¬ 
ing wheels along the road from the direction of Mon- 
cousis. 

“His Grace returning,” shrieked Madame, looking 
at Alixe with a helpless, frightened stare. 

The priest started, and at once stood up, holding 
by the back of his chair, turning his eyes undecidedly 
from one to the other. 

“ Get down! Get down behind the table! ” shrilled 
Madame. “He must not find you here.” 

There was a confused sound of voices. Quentin 
stood regarding the priest with interest to see what he 
would do. The vehicle drew up at the gate. There 
was a clang at the bell. 

“ Get down! Get down! ” again excitedly called 
Madame, in a whisper that could have been heard at 
the entrance. “ He has only come back for something 
he has forgotten. He will not stay.” 

“Perhaps he has lost his train,” said Valery. 

“ Alixe, what did I tell you? What did I tell you? ” 
tearfully said Madame. “I expected exactly some 
such thing, and after I promised! What a contre¬ 
temps ! ” 

Eugene ran to open the gate. 

“Down! Do you hear me? Robert, get down!” 
called Madame again. 


68 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“ How I shall despise him, ” thought Quentin, “ if 
he hides himself behind those women! ” 

The priest stood uncertain, irresolute, as if not 
knowing what to do, but at a decided “ You will not 
get down! Stand your ground! You are my guest. 
No one has the right-” from Alixe, he straight¬ 

ened himself, and stood, pale and handsome, looking 
defiantly around him. 

Yalery had left his chair and had advanced toward 
the gate. 

“What a commotion all about nothing,” he called 
back to them. “It’s only my boxes.” 

At these reassuring words Madame was herself 
again. 

The priest reseated himself, and the meal pro¬ 
gressed, though not quite as if nothing had happened. 
There seemed to be a feeling of constraint among the 
guests, and some of them glanced distrustfully at 
Father Halle. 

When the long dejeuner was finished, Madame took 
Quentin a little apart. 

“I was sorry to disappoint you this morning,” said 
she, “ but I am not feeling quite well. ” The pretty 
blue eyes filled with tears. “ Were you ever misun¬ 
derstood? It is dreadful to be misunderstood. It 
seems as if I were forever being misunderstood. Do 
not misunderstand me, my friend.” 

“I could not,” answered Quentin fervently, forget¬ 
ting everything for the moment but the tearful, plead¬ 
ing eyes. 

“ Just now in the heat of the day every one goes off 
for a siesta. You must go and rest yourself, my 
friend. I will send you some books and La Nouvelle 
Revue. I must see to the unpacking of Yalery’s 


THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 69 


boxes. He is sure to make a litter. They are so 
thoughtless, those wanderers. Later, I will show you 
the ruin. I will send Charles to call you at five, when 
tea is ready.” 

Quentin felt like a bad child to be sent off to bed in 
this way. He would have been glad to aid the Ras- 
taquouere in his unpacking or to do anything to while 
away the time, but he had not been invited to do so, 
and he thought it rather soon to offer his services. 
The various women disappeared within the great 
doors of the chateau. The men, most of whom he 
characterized in his thoughts as “popinjays,” walked 
lazily off, their cigarettes alight. He saw Mademoi¬ 
selle pass along the terrace holding Gartha’s hand, a 
pile of books under her arm; and he also saw two 
other figures vanish along the shaded walk of the 
flower garden. They were the two figures which he 
had seen on the evening of his arrival. Was it only 
the previous evening? He could not have believed 
that so much could have happened in so short a time. 
He turned away to the seclusion of his rooms, feeling 
strangely lonely, feeling that his visit had been a mis¬ 
take perhaps, and that a convenient telegram from 
Paris, in answer to a letter from himself, written that 
evening, should take him away as soon as possible. 


VI. 


Quentin went up the chalet stairs. He threw him¬ 
self lazily upon the low, old fashioned couch. There 
was a knock at the door. It was Pierre Monrouge 
with an armful of books. Quentin chose the “ Pierre 
Nosiere ” of Anatole France, and had soon forgotten 
his annoyance in those first pages of the early remin¬ 
iscences of a child of five years. “ Charming! Charm¬ 
ing!” he murmured; his eyelids closed upon a mov¬ 
ing £>anoramaof Noah and his wife, his sons and their 
wives, followed by all the animals of the clan issuing 
from the ark, the final figure being Joseph, who had 
escaped from his captors and was anachronically 
making a low bow to the patriarch, and saying, “ Bon- 
jour, Monsieur. Bonjour! C’est encore moi, Mon¬ 
sieur. C’est encore moi!” Quentin awoke with a 
start, to find that Joseph had been metamorphosed 
into Pierre Monrouge, who was bowing low and say¬ 
ing that “Feefe o’clock” was ready, and would the 
Monsieur have the bonte to join Madame? 

Quentin made a hasty toilet and emerged upon the 
terrace, for the twentieth time, it seemed to him, since 
his arrival. He approached the long table within the 
recess underneath the chalet, but it was bare of cloth, 
or porcelain. He saw at once that this was not to 
be his objective point, and passed onward toward the 
door of the salon. The room was empty, there was 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 71 


an absence of sound. The whole place seemed de¬ 
serted. 

He approached a window and looked down upon 
the garden beneath, and now he thought that he heard 
the sound of far away voices. He was not a man to 
seek for neglect, but surely, he thought, a little more 
attention might have been paid to so utter a stranger 
as himself. He wandered out of the salon again, and 
on to the terrace, hot with the glare of the afternoon 
sun. As he did so, Charles came out of the little 
door near the gate. He was dressed in afternoon 
costume of knee breeches, white stockings, plush 
coat, etc.; he carried a large, silver tray, on which 
was an old-fashioned tea-service, and Eugene, simi¬ 
larly metamorphosed, followed, with a second tray 
piled high with bread, butter, plates, napkins, and 
steaming covered dishes. 

They crossed the terrace and descended from sight, 
lost beneath an archway of greenery. Quentin fol¬ 
lowed, and found that near the corner of the chateau 
and opposite the entrance door and grille, was a 
broad flight of stone steps. They were delightful old 
steps—the balustrade of stone, the rail of stone, but 
so overgrown with vines as to almost conceal the nat¬ 
ure of their material. Quentin descended slowly. 
This was a place of surprises. He would loiter and 
take it all in as he went. When he reached the bot¬ 
tom of the steps, he found himself upon a path so 
overgrown and cool that it bore a resemblance to a 
tunnel of closely growing vines. The flower garden 
lay upon his right, the fields upon his left. In the 
perspective, where the white legs of Charles had just 
vanished, he saw some gray stone work, and an open¬ 
ing between gray walls, and within, pale shades of 


72 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


filmy stuffs, of pink or blue or white, passing and re¬ 
passing across the opening. There was the sound of 
pleasant, well-bred laughter. A bit of verse came into 
his mind which caused him to smile at his own gratu¬ 
itous estimate of people whom he scarcely knew: 

“And their voices low with fashion, not with feeling, softly 
freighted 

All the air about the windows with elastic laughter sweet.” 

Quentin took a few steps forward, emerged from 
the tunnel of green, and found himself standing be¬ 
tween four gray walls, whose ruined arches and pillars 
upheld no roof-tree. The Abbey church was open to 
the sky. Great oaks, which had grown for genera¬ 
tions in the centre of this delicious spot, proved by 
their presence how ancient the building must be, since 
they could not have sprouted until years after the 
place had been given over to decay, and the roof had 
fallen in from disuse and neglect. 

The contrast between the rugged old ruin and the 
modern butterflies disporting themselves therein 
struck Quentin with a sort of incongruous pictur¬ 
esqueness. The picture overbalanced the incongruity 
within his mind, and, as he came forward, his good 
nature quite restored, through his delight in the scene, 
he unconsciously murmured again: “Charming! 
Charming! ” 

Madame was seated at a large rustic table before 
the tray which the plush-coated Charles had just de¬ 
posited. Eugene had likewise set down his burden 
and both men, with the dexterity which accompanies 
long-accustomed service, were arranging the table to 
suit Madame’s convenience and wishes. The guests 
were seated here and there, either on low growing 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 73 


branches, or about in nooks and corners upon great 
blocks of the old ruin, which had fallen from their 
places, perhaps generations ago, to thus be utilized, 
some persons might say desecrated, in this mundane 
end of the nineteenth century. 

“Welcome! Welcome!” cried Madame gayly to 
Quentin. “ Come over here by me. I have hardly 
seen you. You have hidden yourself away so.” 

Quentin smiled broadly at these words, for he had 
simply followed Madame’s orders. 

“ People certainly take their own way of amusing 
themselves at the Abbey,” said Miss Spencer. 

“AVhere have you been all day, Mr.—Mr.-” 

“Quentin. Mr. Quentin,” supplied Madame. “I 
thought I introduced you this— Do you take sugar, 

Baroness? I always forget-” 

“Fishing all the morning,” laughed Quentin, cast¬ 
ing sleepy eyes downward, “ and sleeping all the after¬ 
noon.” 

“ Why!” exclaimed Miss Spencer, with a catch in 
her breath. “Didn’t you sleep well last night? ” 

“ Perfectly well,” Quentin replied, “ but I have been 
travelling more or less uncomfortably,, and perhaps 
the change to this pure air——” 

“ And why should not Mr. Quentin sleep well, Ada 
Spencer? ” asked Madame, impatiently. 

“He should, he should, dear Madame,” replied 
Miss Spencer, hastily; and then, changing the sub¬ 
ject, “ the Baroness and I have been sketching all the 
morning. We could not leave to come home, the 
light was so delicious, so we took some milk at a farm 
house. We got home in time only to dress. See how 
sunburned I am. The Baroness is a fright,” she 
added, with that disregard of the dependent friend, 


74 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


titled or untitled, which is a characteristic of modern 
society. 

“Yalery says you improve on Nature,” remarked 
Gartha, who was everywhere as usual. 

“Yes, we sometimes improve on Nature,” answered 
Miss Spencer, unsuspiciously. “ Change the growth 
of a limb, a branch or twig, to show what’s beyond.” 

“Yalery says that Nature is never out of drawing.” 
Gartha emphasized the noun. Miss Spencer red¬ 
dened suddenly, and clicked her teeth together. 

“To be caught by an odious child like that,” she 
murmured to the Baroness. Then again quickly 
changed her topic. 

“I purn ret,” remarked the Baroness humbly. 
“ Not? ” with a look around at the company gener¬ 
ally. 

“Yes, that’s the trouble,” remarked Miss Spencer. 

“And you peel, Baroness,” asked Gartha. 

“But a little color makes you, if that were possible, 
only the more attractive, Baroness,” Yalery hastened 
to say, with a cross shake of the head at Gartha. 

“And you won’t peel until to-morrow,” laughed 
Miss Spencer. 

“Do you never do anything but eat in this house? ” 
asked Quentin of Madame. 

“We do many things, as you have just heard,” an¬ 
swered Madame, looking brightly up at her friend. 
“ Some more cakes, Charles, and another pitcher of 
cream. Some jam, Mary Thorndyke? ” 

“It’s very fattening,” said Gartha. 

This parenthetical remark had its effect. Miss 
Thorndyke withdrew a plump, outstretched hand, 
and reddened unpleasantly. Her girth was increas¬ 
ing daily in this land of plenty. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 75 


“ Lord Eldon said that Mamasha fattened them for 
the marche—the market, I mean,” said Gartha, look¬ 
ing straight at Miss Thorndyke. 

“I don’t see why Madame lets that child come to 
five o’clock and everything else with the grown ups,” 
murmured the victim sotto voce to the Baroness. 
The Baroness gave her a fellow-feeling glance. 

“Gartha,” said Yalery, “if you speak again, I will 
send you to do some more lessons. Mademoiselle, I 
thought you were teaching her manners.” 

Yalery had difficulty in enunciating this sentence, 
as Gartha had clasped him round his neck so tightly 
that he was almost breathless. 

“Eet ees imposb’ to teach that chile anythin’ so 
spoil ees she,” said the Baroness. 

“He said-” continued Gartha, unsilenced by 

threats. 

“Who said?” 

“ You ought to know, Mamasha. Lord Eldon. He 
said-” 

Madame glanced at Quentin, reddened, and looked 
down. 

“ That there was a new reading to ‘ This little pig 
went to market. ’ He used to play it with my fingers, 
so.” Gartha took her father’s large brown hand be¬ 
tween her own little ones. “He said it went this 
way— 

“ 4 This little pig went to market, 

“ 4 And this little pig tagged along, 

44 4 And this little pig got pearls and emeralds, 

44 4 And this little pig got houses and estates, 

44 4 And this little pig got all kicks and no half¬ 
pence;’—Yalery, dear, what are you doing? Give 
me your other hand,—* 


76 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“‘ And tliis little pig got a mauvais sujet of a hus¬ 
band, 

“‘And this little pig was sent home to her 
mother, 

“ ‘ But still all the little society pigs went to mar¬ 
ket.’ What is a mauvais sujet of a husband, Papa- 
chen? That is a word that has never been ex-ex- 
plique.” 

“You are too young to be talking about husbands, 
child! All the same, no one will ever give you kicks 
and no ha’pence, because I shall see to it that all the 
ha’pence will be yours; consequently there will be no 
kicks.” 

“ Yalery, how can you talk to the child so? ” 

“I shouldn’t like to be kicked,” said Gartha, “but 
you can’t buy much for a half a penny. I should not 
think that even a franc would buy much.” 

“Eet vele not puj r a husban’. I know that much,” 
said the Baroness, with a swift look at her own faded 
gown, and a reminiscent glance at her dissipated fort¬ 
une. 

“They come dear, husbands!” said Yalery, see¬ 
ing in imagination the Baron sitting in front of Max¬ 
im’s, drinking his accustomed glass of absinthe, and 
looking through his monocle after such of the femi¬ 
nine passers-by as glanced alluringly at him. 

“ Mademoiselle, why do you allow Gartha to talk 
so much? ” asked Madame, as she put a lump of sugar 
into Quentin’s cup. 

“ I could do something with that chile if I had con¬ 
trol excluseeve,” Mademoiselle sniffed resentfully as 
she glanced toward Alixe, who had at that moment 
entered the farther opening into the ruins. The 
priest followed her. She still wore her dress of the 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 77 


morning, and upon lier head was the white Russian 
hat. Her hair was carelessly loose about her ears, 
the silver combs holding it in place. If ever a human 
being appeared to be utterly oblivious of concern in 
her personal appearance, it was this tall young wom¬ 
an whom they called Alixe. 

“ I wish that I could make Alixe think a little more 
of her dress,” whispered Madame in a loud aside. 
“ There are her closets full of-” 

Gartha arose and met Alixe half way and repeated 
all the words that she had taken time to hear. 

“I will remember what Mamasha says,’’said Alixe; 
"she is perfectly right.” 

At this snub from her beloved Alixe Gartha sub¬ 
sided for a time. 

“ And clothes are so abnormally cheap and pretty 
now-a-days,” said Miss Spencer in an undertone to 
the Baroness; “ if one knows where to go, Paris is 
really a very economical place to shop in.” 

“I never haf find eet so,” sighed the Baroness, 
smoothing down an old black silk skirt which had 
seen many a better day, and recalling a tailor bill 
which had come to the Baron the previous week. 

“ I wonder what Alixe does with all her old clothes,” 
said Miss Thorndyke in an undertone to Miss Spen¬ 
cer. 

“ She has never has any £ old clothes, ’ ” returned 
Miss Spencer, "because she never has any new ones. 
A thing can’t be old before it has existed at all. Now* 
Mamasha always wears good clothes. There is great 
moral support in good clothes.” 

Miss Thorndyke surveyed the subject of these re¬ 
marks critically. 

“Old as they are,” she said, “they have a style of 


78 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


their own, and she has a certain way of wearing them; 
I wish I had it. It’s something that belongs to her. 
But she has splendid things, Ada Spencer. I have 
seen them; Madame showed them to me. Closet after 
closet full. Madame herself orders them, I believe.” 

“ Alixe, do take off that ridiculous old hat,” called 
Madame. 

Alixe laughed and showed her teeth. She took the 
hat from her head. 

“ Mercy! Put it on again, do! ” said Madame has¬ 
tily, discovering suddenly the lovely disorder of the 
light chestnut hair and its picturesque effect. 

"She wears it,” whispered Miss Spencer to Quen¬ 
tin, “ because some artist said that it looked like a 
halo. He painted her face for la Sainte Vierge.” 

“He stole it,” said Gartha, who was always hearing 
what she should not, “ and put it on that figure of 
Marie Monrouge that stood for the Sainte Vierge. 
Alixe said it was des, des—well, something. She 
doesn’t paint her face,” continued Gartha, looking 
steadily at Miss Spencer. “Valery says that you 
decorate. What do you decorate, the hotels or les 
apartements? ” Gartha spoke, with the French pro¬ 
nunciation. 

Some natural color was added to the imitation, if 
imitation there were, as Miss Spencer took up her 
parasol and moved lauguidly away. “ Shall I show 
you the ruins, Mr. Quentin? ” she asked. Quentin 
looked at Madame. 

“Go with her,” said his hostess, with a resigned 
sigh. “I must fill these yawning voids.” 

“You seem to keep a sort of sublimated pension,” 
commented Quentin, smiling at the labor Madame 
made of what she delighted in. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 79 


"Yes, isn’t it? ” As Madame poured out more tea, 
she sighed as if life were not worth living. 

“ When tlie} r have all eaten and drank their fill, I 
will take'you to see the men above the farmyard gate.” 

“ Oh, ze dear tzin mans! ze dear fat mans! I know 
not vicli I lofe ze better of zoze mans! ” exclaimed the 
Baroness, enthusiastically. 


Quentin passed along tlie gravelled interior of the 
Abbey church, keeping pace with Miss Spencer’s high 
heeled walk and the rustle of her silk-lined muslin. 
He heard, while he did not listen to the words, 
“ Twelfth century. The earliest records are of eleven 
hundred and fifty. The Abbey, instead of being, as 
at present, so practically remote from the Convent 
proper, was in those days connected with it by other 
buildings, at least so the Archbishop told us only last 
evening after you left the salon. There is a book 
about it. He played billiards with me for an hour or 
more. The dear Archbishop! He is so charming, 
so human, so secular, so tolerant of the frailties of 
humanity. I love a secular prelate, don’t you, Mr. 
Quentin? This place itself was secular enough at one 
time. I suppose you have heard, when the fourteenth 
or fifteenth Abbess took the crosse abbatiale.” 

“Did she wear her croix abbatiale as Alixe— 
as—•—” Quentin stopped short in what he was say¬ 
ing. He stammered confusedly. “ I should ask her 
pardon,” said he. “But I have never known any 
other name by which to call her. It came out before 
I thought. I-” 

“ One would think you had been here a year, ” 
laughed Miss Spencer. “ Never known her by any 
other name!” she quoted back at him. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 81 


“ Madame lias never told me. In fact, she never 
mentioned her. I know that her name is Alixe, and 
that Gartlia is her niece; more than this-” 

“ Odious child! ” interrupted Miss Spencer, with a 
backward glance at Gartlia. 

“ I know that Valery is her brother-in-law, and Ma¬ 
dame her aunt.” 

“Has she told you that?” laughed Miss Spencer, 
evidently much amused at something in her own 
thoughts. “As you see, she gives succor and com¬ 
fort to a holy priest, who is no better than he should 
be. His Grace warned her about him. I wonder if 
he knows how madly in love Halle is with her-•” 

“ A priest in love! I am not of his church, but I 
must confess that such a suggestion seems too sacri¬ 
legious; too-” 

“He is but a man, after all,” said Miss Spencer. 

“ Yes, but not as other men are. At least he should 
not be; he-” 

“ But if she leads him on. She is awfully rich; 
she can do as she likes. Everything is forgiven a 
rich woman. I have lived long enough to know that 
riches mean exemption from criticism. What im¬ 
mense independence there is in wealth, abnormal 
wealth. Every one runs after you, even the church 
condones your misdemeanors.” 

“ I should not think the word misdemeanor applic¬ 
able here,” said Quentin. 

“ Look there! ” returned his companion. Quentin 
raised his eyes again toward the two figures stand¬ 
ing just within the doorway whither they had with¬ 
drawn. The words they said were not distinguish¬ 
able. Had they been, Quentin would have heard the 
priest say: 

6 



82 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“Can I trust you? ” He saw, however, the anxious 
look in the deep, hollow eyes. 

“Certainly,” replied his companion. “Have you 
not always? ” Quentin saw that Halle bent down¬ 
ward. He took within his hand the. large crucifix of 
silver which depended from the string of beads encir¬ 
cling her slim waist. The cross was studded with 
amethysts and shone a glorious mass of color in the 
sunshine. 

“Kiss the cross,” said he. 

“ Oh, Robert! ” said she. “ Not here! Not now! 
Is not my word enough? ” 

Halle’s eyes shone with a wild light of disappoint¬ 
ment. 

“ Yery well, then,” said Alixe gravely. She moved 
a little outside of the ruin, thus screening herself 
from view. She took the cross in her hands, and, 
looking upward, pressed the shining metal to her 
lips. Halle smiled with satisfaction. 

Alixe answered the smile with the words, “ Not as a 
daughter of the church, Robert, but in memory of 
Virginia Danielli.” Halle shuddered and ceased to 
smile. “ That is no oath. It is not binding, ” he said. 

“ I need take no oath to be true to a friend. Have 
I ever broken a promise? Virginia, good Catholic 
that she is, when she left me did not ask me to take 
an oath that I would be faithful to her. Why should 
you?” 

They moved again within the walls. 

“ Those cliurchly flirtations are charming to watch,” 
remarked Miss Spencer to Quentin. “A sort of 
Abelard and Heloise affair. There is no danger on 
either side, and one may go almost to the verge of 
prudence and not-” 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 83 


“I hate to hear you talk like that,” said Quentin. 
Miss Spencer looked up with interest. 

“ You amaze me! ” she said. “ Is it because you 
dislike to feel that the innocent dew of youthful charm 
is being brushed from the virginal soil, or because 
you don’t wish to acknowledge that a pure soul has 
been already smirched?” 

“ I hate to hear a woman talk as you do about an¬ 
other woman,” said Quentin, with impatience. 

“ But if it is true! You can see for yourself. Did 
you see her kiss that cross just now? No? I can 
see them better from here. Alixe has no reason to 
kiss that cross. She is the most determined little 
Protestant you can find in France. She only did it 
for effect. Mamasha and the Archbishop are ham¬ 
mering away at her all the time. She is a stone that 
no continual dropping will ever wear away.” 

Miss Spencer subsided upon a moss covered rock 
which had fallen from the roof-tree in some dead cen¬ 
tury. She drew aside her pink silk and muslin. 

Quentin could not resist complying with this invit¬ 
ing gesture. He felt that he was about to learn some¬ 
thing of the Abbey, and he was not willing to lose 
the opportunity. Miss Spencer talked and talked, 
and as she talked she drew little curves and diamonds 
in the gravel with her parasol at the tip of her pointed 
shoe. 

“ Alixe is one of the richest women in France, I be¬ 
lieve, or she was when Bruno married her-” 

" Married her? Then she is married? ” 

“ Oh, yes, indeed! First, there is this Abbey—•—■” 

"Then this is not the home of Madame Pe- 
trofsky-” 

“ Oh, yes, Alixe gives her a home here! Mamasha 


84 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


will sponge on anybody. Then there is that splendid 
place in the Pyrenees, but seems to me I have heard 
that she had to sell that to pay Bruno’s debts. Then 
there is the villa on the Riviera, Cannes or Mentone, 
or somewhere, I don’t know. I’ve never been there. 
Then she had a charming hotel in the Champs Ely sees, 
where Bruno used to give his orgies, and a seaside 
place somewhere or other, and money in all the banks 
in the world. She is a very wealthy woman, our 
Duchess! ” 

“Those things are always exaggerated,” said Quen¬ 
tin, with a strange sinking of the heart. “ And where, 
then, is the Duke? ” 

“The Duke? Mercy on me! Hasn’t Mamasha 
enlightened you? I don’t wonder. It was all her 
doing. Mamasha hawked those girls about to half 
the capitals of Europe. Alixe was only seventeen. 
The old Duke fell dead just as he had signed his 
name in the marriage register. Just think how lucky 
for Alixe! and how near a thing it was! He had 
made his will in her favour and all. Mamasha fol¬ 
lows the English custom,” continued Miss Spencer. 
“Perhaps, after all, it’s proper, as all she has came 
from the Duke. You know in my country once a 
duchess, always a duchess, unless, indeed, there is a 
higher title which one may claim; that’s a custom 
which-■” 

“Yes, I know,” said Quentin. “I have just been 

staying with the-” and he mentioned the well 

known name of a titled lady who had been for a 
fortnight past his hostess; her husband, plain Mr. 
Blank. 

“Do you stay there?” exclaimed Miss Spencer, 
breathless at the honor heaped upon this great un- 



THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 85 


known wliom slie had simply thought one of Ma¬ 
dame’s doubtful discoveries. “ Why, how did you 
get to know them ? You Americans seem to go every¬ 
where now-a-days. You--” 

"Then she is a widow, that young creature,” re¬ 
sumed Quentin, raising his eyes with renewed interest 
and ignoring Miss Spencer’s personalities. 

“ She was, till Mamasha married her to Bruno, but 
it’s all hers—Alixe, I mean. That spiteful old cat is 
only here on sufferance. How Alixe allows her to 
usurp all her prerogatives I can’t see. How 1 should 
lord it over her! ” 

Quentin was so deeply interested in this new his¬ 
tory that he forgot to be resentful at the strictures 
upon his friend Madame, 

“ I believe there was a castle in Italy, too. He was 
an Italian, the Duke. Bruno is a Spaniard. He was 
a dreadful old man, the Duke, a thousand years old, 
more or less, and with a hundred pasts. Mamasha 
knew how to manage.” Miss Spencer glanced at her 
listener in an insinuating manner. 

“ Do you mean to imply that Madame gave the 
Duke as he went to the altar a surreptitious dose of 
poison warranted to kill just after the blessing ? ” 
laughed Quentin. 

“ Oli, no! No one ever accused Mamasha of that.” 
There was an emphasis on the final word as if un¬ 
known depths of infamy might be revealed did Miss 
Spencer think it worth her while. “ She intended to 
put up with her son-in-law until he was gathered to 
his long line of titled and disreputable fathers; in 
fact, she was ready to gather him to her own youthful 
bosom. I don’t know but Mamasha would have been 
the Duchess to-day, if, when he came to see her, he 


86 THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


had not seen Alixe by accident. They were living in 
Paris then in a little hugger-mugger apartment—in a 
fashionable quarter enough, though; Mamasha would 
have gilt chairs if she ate meat only on Sundays. 
Alixe, as I told you, was barely seventeen. She is 
just twenty this month. She had no more idea what 
marriage meant than I have this minute. ” Miss Spen¬ 
cer looked down with a mature smile of embarrass¬ 
ment. 

“This is a strange revelation to me,” said Quentin 
slowly. “ But then-” 

“ Do you mean to say, Mr. Quentin, that you came 
to visit Alixe knowing no more about-” 

“I am Madame Petrofsky’s guest,” said Quentin, 
“ and that should have prevented my listening to—•—” 

“But it is no secret. I am saying no harm,” ex¬ 
claimed Miss Spencer hurriedly, wishing to disclaim 
to this good-looking stranger any wish to gossip about 
her hosts. “ Mamasha probably thinks you know all 
about it. Her old friends were frightfully angry at 
Mamasha for marrying Alixe to Bruno. He was her 
cousin, you know. Alixe had lent him loads of 
money. He got into several scrapes and lawsuits of 
one kind or another, and Alixe paid his debts. They 
were enormous debts. Colossal! He wheedles Alixe 
now out of her money, outrageously ! He used to be 
Mamasha’s favorite nephew, but I imagine that since 
she has succeeded in marrying him to Alixe, and he 
has really more right to her property than formerly, 
she is sorry every day of her life. Alixe doesn’t care 
a fig for money, and Bruno is always experimenting. 
He says they fascinate him—his experiments-” 

“ But I cannot understand when his wife has so 
much why he needs-” 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 87 


“ Yes, that’s what every one says! I asked Mamasha 
that same question the other day, and she said that 
poor Bruno had never done anything but spend money, 
first his own fortune, then all that he could borrow 
from Alixe. That he felt that Alixe despised him, 
and that now he meant to set himself right in her 
eyes. If there is one creature whom Bruno adores 
on the face of this earth, it is Alixe; that is, next to 
himself. He wants to show her, Mamasha says, that 
he can add something to the general fund. She smiles 
and lets him have his way, but even a fortune like the 
Duca di Brazzia’s will not stand such a strain as that; 
besides, how absurd to spend a hundred thousand 
francs to make twenty thousand; but Bruno thinks 
that it rehabilitates him in Alixe’s eyes.” Miss Spen¬ 
cer’s breath had failed. 

"A strange way to increase one’s fortune,” said 
Quentin; “sending good money after bad.” 

“ Well, Mamasha argues alternately on Bruno’s 
side, and then on her own; never on the side of Alixe; 
that you will see as time goes on. She says that these 
investments of Bruno’s will be permanent, and that 
the inventions will bring him in, for every fifty thou¬ 
sand that he now spends, certainly a hundred and 
fifty. He tells her that, of course, and she believes 
it, or pretends to. How does any one know that he 
isn’t just spending the principal? ” 

“This is all very interesting,” remarked Quentin. 
“ I don’t know that I ought-” 

“ Don’t have scruples, ” said Miss Spencer. “ I hate 
a man with scruples. Mamasha will tell you. She 
always confides in the last new man. She only hasn’t 
had time yet.” 

“The last new man,” repeated Quentin to himself 


88 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


with anything but a satisfied feeling. Was that what 
he was? The last new man? He was getting new 
side-lights on Madame’s character, but he told him¬ 
self as these thoughts passed through his mind that 
he must consider their source, and, though Miss Spen¬ 
cer might intend to be truthful, there was, he felt cer¬ 
tain, a modicum of spite mixed with her frankness of 
speech. 

Quentin arose. Miss Spencer, having captured the 
most distinguished looking man who had been seen at 
the Abbey for many a day, arose also, but slowly. 
She would have to relinquish him soon enough. Let 
her hold him while she might. 

“ Although Alixe is a Protestant, she is educated to 
death, and, strange to say, was educated in a convent. 
I believe that she used to help Bruno with his chem¬ 
icals, but he doesn’t allow her to any more. He says 

he has got beyond her—that-” 

“Help Bruno? You mean-” 

“Yes, St. Aubin, with his experiments. Thank 
heaven, he is away at present. Every one flees when 
they hear the wheels of his chariot approaching. If 
he were here, I should be sorry for you, as I be¬ 
lieve you sleep in the chalet. That is where all 
the-” 

“ Ada! Ada Spencer! Come here! ” 

“Isn’t it dangerous for her to—help him with-” 

“Come, Ada! Come! Don’t you hear? We want 
to see the statues before the sun goes dow r n.” 

“ Mamasha has claimed you for her own, ” said Miss 
Spencer, walking slowly before Quentin in the direc¬ 
tion of Madame. “Dangerous? To be sure, it is 

very dangerous. They had one explosion-” 

“What a wonderful thing that is,” said Quentin, 



THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 89 


musingly, apparently forgetful of lier company, “ that 
cross of amethysts? ” 

“La Crosse Abbatiale,” said Miss Spencer, with 
that extreme French accent which no Frenchman born 
could understand. “The one Alixe carries? She is 
the Abbess of Bref, you know.” 

They were approaching Madame, who strained her 
ears to catch Miss Spencer’s lightest word, as an in¬ 
dication what the trend of the conversation had been. 
“Alixe has no crosier, Ada,” called Madame. “La 
Croix Abbatiale if you will—Virginia Danielli’s 
splendid gift; but what a fuss you make over 
Alixe’s-” 

Gartlia interrupted, running to Quentin, taking his 
hand in hers and jumping up and down. 

“Come, Mr. Quentin. Don’t you hear Mamasha 
calling you ? She is very much genee with you. She 
says Ada Spencer never knows when to let a man-” 

“ Mr. Quentin has been at liberty for at least twenty 
minutes,” said Miss Spencer, coloring hotly as he ap¬ 
proached Madame. “Mamasha,” she said aloud, 
“you should either refrain from comment upon 
your guests, or you should send Gartha to the 
nursery.” 

“ Oh, come, come, Ada! ” said Madame in a coax¬ 
ing tone to the plain-spoken young woman. “ Gartha 
makes all the trouble in this house. I have scarcely 
seen Mr. Quentin, and he is my guest, you know.” 

At Madame’s summons they followed the varie¬ 
gated stream of humanity out under the ragged arch¬ 
way and up through the tunnel of green. Quentin, 
with no volition on his part, found Madame leaning 
upon him, her hand pushed through the bend of his 
arm, while Miss Spencer walked on before with Made- 


90 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


moiselle. Gartka had not relinquished Quentin’s 
hand. 

“Et votre pere, ouest-il, Garta?” inquired Made¬ 
moiselle. 

“She has her eye on Valery,” whispered Madame 
to Quentin. “ I suppose we must get rid of her soon, 
as we have had to of the others. ” 

“He not, is not going to come,” said Gartha, in 
purposely garbled English. 

“ Garta! Garta! ” screamed Mademoiselle in 
English. “ How often have I told you that you must 
not translate literally from the French into the Eng¬ 
lish. That double negative is only used-” 

“I must,” said Gartha, decidedly, still speaking 
English. “Imust translate to the foot of the letter.” 

“ Did you ever see so tirzome a chilt? ” asked Made¬ 
moiselle, turning back toward Quentin. 

“She says that we spoil her,” commented Madame 
in an undertone, “ and so we do, I suppose, but she 
herself encourages it. I believe that she really loves 
that child, badly as Gartha treats her, and she is well 
aware that the Abbey is not a bad resting place for 
the summer.” 

“Nor for a lifetime,” said Quentin, looking down 
upon her, and throwing a fervour into his tone, why 
he knew not, which brought to Madame’s cheek a 
deeper flush. 

The procession had now reached the lower of the 
stone steps. Quentin saw rising ahead of him a 
stream of pretty pale colors. He heard the hum of 
sweet voices. The place w r as alive with everyday¬ 
ness and matter-of-fact-ness, with a little of the world 
and its fashion thrown in. As they issued from the 
ruin, they had left behind them the mystery of the 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 91 


place. Quentin was absorbed and fascinated with the 
variety of it all. 

They crossed the terrace, this mass of bright plum¬ 
age. Eugene unlocked the grille, and then threw open 
the door in the wall. Gartlia was again jumping up 
and down and pulling at Quentin’s hand like a young 
colt at the halter. Mademoiselle and Miss Spencer 
had dropped behind, and now Mademoiselle came 
running after them, breathlessly exclaiming in volu¬ 
ble French: 

“ Garta! Garta! You cannot go! You will spoil 
your shoes! ” 

“Come! Come!” said Gartlia, urging Quentin. 
“ Let us run! ” 

“You cannot go, Garta \” repeated Mademoiselle 
in a very decided tone. 

“ The French is a language which I do not compre¬ 
hend—me! ” said Gartlia. 

“It is her mother tongue,” said Madame, turning 
laughingly to Quentin. “ She is not at all at home in 
English.” 

“Just this once, Mademoiselle.” It was the voice 
of Alixe. She came forward from somewhere behind 
them all. 

“She will spoil her shoes,” urged Mademoiselle. 

“ As if I had not more of the shoes! Nom de Dieu! ” 

“Come! Come!” to Quentin, with renewed pull¬ 
ing of the hand. Alixe had now come up to them 
and was standing just without the gate with the young 
priest. 

“ I think that you have not met Father Halle, Mr. 
Quentin,” said she. “This is our very old friend, 
Father Halle, and he is also a trusted friend of my 
husband.” 


92 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


The men bowed, but neither offered his hand. The 
introduction seemed longer than necessary and stilted, 
Quentin thought, but he felt that he dimly understood 
the cause. 

They had all emerged from the gate, Gartha still 
pulling Quentin onward, which caused him to hasten 
his footsteps, Madame keeping up her quick little 
Louis Quinze patter beside him. 

“Gartha,” said Alixe, “walk quietly. If you do 
not, I shall send you back. 

“Yes, Alixe,” replied the child submissively, and 
at once suited her pace to that of Madame. 

“You see that Alixe can do anything with her,” 
said Madame to Quentin. 

The procession skirted the wall of the domain, as 
far as it environed the chateau. 

“ This was the old wall of the convent,” began Miss 
Spencer, who had taken up her position again in front 
of Quentin. She turned toward him as she spoke. 

“ I am quite capable of explaining the chateau to 
Mr. Quentin, Ada,” said Madame. 

“ She does take possession of a man! ” confided 
Miss Spencer to Mademoiselle. 

“ You can see how carefully the old windows are 
guarded,” said Madame, looking up at her guest. 
“Nothing but slits and loopholes most of them, with 
iron bars across even these. Just think how it has 
lasted, more than six hundred years, and looks as if 
it would last six hundred more.” 

“We don’t build in that way now-a-days,” he an¬ 
swered. 

The advance guard had now halted, and as Madame 
and Quentin approached them the Baroness was apos¬ 
trophising some one or something. 


THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 93 


“ Oh! You dear, fat mans! Oh! You dear, tzin 
mans! I know not vich I lofe ze best of zoze mans.” 

Quentin raised his eyes and caught sight of two 
carved figures of stone high above his head in a niche 
in the wall. 

“ If any testimony were needed as to the age of 
these buildings, there it is,” said Father Halle. 

The thin man showed his bones in the most ap¬ 
proved anatomical manner. His look was sad and 
wretched; his lean and wasted jaws bagging down¬ 
ward ; his skeleton hand was outlield for alms. The 
fat man by his side was round and jolly. His cheeks 
appeared to be bursting with laughter and good nat¬ 
ure. His paunch seemed rotund with the weight of 
many a grand dinner. The stone was so ancient that 
time had worn many a hole and dent in its surface, 
but still the thin man looked gloomily downward, and 
still the fat man seemed to crack his cheeks with 
ludicrous jollity. 

Quentin saw not much to admire in the two figures 
beside their age and the endurance with which they 
had weathered the storm and sunshine for over six 
hundred years. He “Oh’d” and “Ail’d” politely, 
however, and then turned away to follow the gor¬ 
geous bevy who were retracing their way toward the 
entrance gate. The voluble Baroness departed, throw¬ 
ing kisses over her shoulder to her dear fat mans, 
and her dear tzin mans, and declaring animatedly 
that she knew not which she lofed ze best of zoze 
dear mans. 


VIII. 


As the assemblage neared the door in the wall, dust 
seemed to fill the air. It flew thick, and Madame 
sneezed with several wild little screeches, which she 
endeavored in vain to smother. Alixe hurried past 
them, coughing as she ran. 

“How strange!” said Madame when she could 
speak. “No carriage has passed by. Nor am I ex¬ 
pecting any one.” 

“There goes a wagon,” said Quentin; “back along 
the road.” 

“ Some one must have arrived then! ” Madame re¬ 
leased Quentin’s arm and accelerated her speed. 

On entering the doorway it was evident indeed that 
some one had arrived. The terrace was piled high 
with luggage. Orders more or less authoritative were 
being given in a man’s voice. The low tones of Alixe, 
which possessed such carrying power, and, when she 
chose to dictate, which no one refused to obey, were 
heard above the first voice, and Quentin saw that 
along toward the chalet some of the men-servants 
were struggling with a box which seemed too heavy 
for them. Mentally he compared this smaller box, 
of such apparent weight, with his own easily-lifted 
good-sized one. 

“Ah, mon Dieu! It is Bruno,” shrilled Madame. 
“It is my friend, Bruno,” said Father Halle, with 


THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 95 


a sound in his voice which was a mixture of pleasure 
and fear. 

“ It is Bruno! ” piped the merry note of the Kas- 
taquouere. “Don’t blow us up, Bruno, I beg of 
you.” 

“It is the husband of Alixe,” whispered Miss Spen¬ 
cer in Quentin’s ear. “I, for one, have business in 
town.” 

“Ah, bah! It is my Uncle Bruno,” said Gartha. 
“That godenot, my Uncle Bruno.” 

“It is the Count St. Aubin,” said Mademoiselle in 
a low tone. “ Now you will see how quickly we shall 
lose our guests.” 

“It is the Monsieur le Comte,” mumbled Charles. 
“ Now there will be no more peace! ” 

Upon the terrace there was an air of excitement 
which centered about a crooked, thin, undersized man, 
whose skin was yellow, and whose eyes were small 
and black. 

“Eaites attention!” he called in a penetrating 
head voice. “ If you let that box fall, my life’s work 
is ended.” 

“We will not drop it, Monsieur 'le Comte,” called 
Antoine and Pierre Monrouge in many jerky breaths 
as they staggered and shuffled and stumbled and per¬ 
spired. They carried their burden as if, should they 
allow it to slip from their grasp, their life’s work 
would also be ended. 

“I thought you were at Hamburg,” said Alixe. 

“ So I was. Fools! Dolts! Idiots! That I must 
see after such a set of ignoramuses, who will spoil 
the work of a lifetime. Careful there, Pierre Mon¬ 
rouge, if you know what is good for you, You will 
ruin me between you.” 


96 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“ They are doing their best, Bruno; the box seems 
heavy. And are you just from England? ” 

“Yes,” answered St. Aubin, shortly. 

“ Ce cher Bruno! ” said the Baroness to Miss Spen¬ 
cer, “with he’s so pretty manners. Now you will see 
ze leafings like ze leafings of ze autumn.” 

“Now the men will give warning,” whispered Ma¬ 
dame to Alixe. “ Why must he return so abruptly 

and harry the servants so that they-” 

“ Nonsense, Mamasha! ” said Alixe, good naturedly. 
“What are they afraid of? ” 

“ You know what Charles said the last time, when 
his hand was injured. He is such an excellent serv¬ 
ant, too! Where could we find another who would 
do all that Charles does in this household? ” 

“That is very true, Mamasha,” replied Alixe; “but 
think what it means to Bruno.” 

“ Why should he keep on with his expensive re¬ 
searches? I never dreamed of this when—if I had 
imagined—I shall never forgive you, Alixe, for giv¬ 
ing him so much control of your fortune. It is ridicu¬ 
lous. You might much better have given it to me. 
You know it cannot last forever. After the place at 
Pau was sold, and the house at Trouville—you are a 

rich woman no longer-” 

“ Oh, Mamasha, what difference does it make? We 
have still enough, and Bruno’s pride will be satisfied 
with the fortune which he thinks he can make and 
thus become independent of me. I cannot blame him. 
Why cannot we let people be happy in their own way ? 

It is such a dreadful thing to be dependent-” 

“No one knows that better than I, Alixe.” This 
Madame said in a tone which was full of bitter¬ 
ness. 


THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 97 


Alixe turned. “ Oil! Oh! Have I made you feel 
it? How, mother? How? ” 

“ Hush! ” said Madame in warning, looking nerv¬ 
ously to where Quentin stood not far away. 

“How have I made you feel it? ” pressed Alixe in 
a lower tone. “ I am sure it is right that you should 

have it all. It was your idea—no-” seeing the 

expression of Madame’s face, “I am not bitter, 
mother. I only think sometimes of what my life 
might have been. I was so young and-” 

“ He should not be coming here in this way! ” ex¬ 
claimed Madame, reverting to her grievance. “ Now, 
every one will leave.” 

“I have no control over Bruno, that you know, 
Moth—Mamasha. He has always been your favorite; 
you should speak to him, he will-” 

“ I speak to him! I have lost my power over him, 
Alixe, since he married you. Certainly I did not 
foresee. Now, every one will be going-” 

“I for one shall not be sorry,” said Alixe, half smil¬ 
ing. 

“ Eond as I am of Bruno, he should not be allowed 
to burst in upon us in this unexpected way.” 

“We cannot tell him not to come. He has the 
right. It was not my fault, mother.” 

“ Hush! ” said Madame again. “ Do not reproach 
me, Alixe; it is more than I can bear.” 

“I shall not reproach you,” said Alixe. “It was a 
dreadful mistake. I was too young to see—to 
know-” 

“ Alixe! Alixe! ” sounded along the terrace in the 
Count’s voice. “I want you.” 

“Yes, yes, Bruno,”answered Alixe, walking swiftly 
toward the chalet. The priest followed her with quick 

7 


98 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


steps. Madame turned to the Baroness. “ I do not 
think Father Halle good for Bruno,” she said. She 
spoke of the priest as if he were a bit of unripe fruit 
or an over-rich pastry. 

Alixe reached the chalet steps and was about to en¬ 
ter the archway, but was stopped by a cry from over¬ 
head. 

“ Don’t come up, Alixe.” She came out from under 
the overhanging vines, disappointment in her face. 
“No, you mustn’t come up,” called St. Aubin from 
over the narrow little balcony, “ the things are too 
dangerous. If I blow myself up, it will not matter 
so much.” 

“ Oh, Bruno! ” said Alixe, kindly. “ It would mat¬ 
ter very much. I should like to come up. You must 
have some new chemicals which I have not seen. I 
should like to know how you manage them. I found 
it all so interesting.” 

“No, no!” said the Count, decidedly. “I called 
you only to tell you that I have already made some¬ 
thing by my last invention.” 

“ Oh, Bruno! ” exclaimed Alixe gayly. “ How 
happy you must feel! ” 

“ I heard the news only this morning. Yes, I am 
glad, because I want you to see that I am good for 
something besides wasting your money.” 

“ What was it, Bruno? An automobile? ” 

“N-n-no, not exactly that.” 

“Have they bought your patent, Bruno?” asked 
Alixe, shading her eyes and looking up at him from 
under the brim of her old Russian hat. 

“ No, I cannot tell you about it now. But I am 
much encouraged; I have made fifty thousand francs 
already. Just think of that, Alixe! Fifty thousand 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 99 


francs! You see, I am more like other men than you 
think.” 

"I have always thought you very clever, Bruno,” 
said Alixe. “ Two thousand pounds! Only think of 
that! I am glad for your sake, though, when I have 
more than enough, it seems so useless-” 

"Don’t say 4 have,’ Alixe,” said St. Aubin leaning 
over and looking down upon her. “ You must say 
‘ had ’ after this.” 

He spoke in a low tone, so that those a little fur¬ 
ther away could not hear: “ You know that I have 

sunk fortunes in the perfecting of my plans. I do 
not believe that anj r one else ever thought of just this 
way to apply the hidden power that I have discovered. 
I am now turning my attention to the automobile. 
Don’t you remember how I tried everything that 
science could achieve? That is, so far as I knew 
anything about it. Alchemy was one thing, do you 
remember? We thought we had a gold mine up here 
in the chalet.” 

“Yes, Bruno,” laughed Alixe; “that was before we 
were married.” 

“Were we ever married?” said St. Aubin, with a 
return of the bitter tone which had sounded through 
his first words. He turned quickly: “ Who is that? 
Don’t come in so like a cat? ” Something was said in 
a low tone, by the person within the room, which 
Alixe did not hear. 

“Good-by, Bruno,” said Alixe, looking kindly up¬ 
ward. “I will see you at dinner.” 

Halle came from the back of the room to the long 
windows, and looked out through the vine-clad open¬ 
ing. He was very much taller than St. Aubin, and 
his pale face made the Count’s appear even more sal- 


LofC. 


100 THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 

low than usual. “ How can you have her here! ” 
he exclaimed, angrily. “If you must make ex- 
perim-” 

" Ta, ta! ” replied the Count, impatiently. “ Don’t 
interfere, Bob. Very well, run along then, Alixe. 
Halle is afraid we shall blow ourselves up and you 
into the bargain.” 

“Till dinner, then,” said Alixe. 

Alixe walked slowly away toward the chateau. She 
met Quentin, who was just turning in at the archway 
of the chalet stairs. 

Alixe stopped a moment. 

“Mr. Quentin,” she said, “I think that when our 
other guests are gone, we had better give you a dif¬ 
ferent room—one over in the chateau-” 

“I like my room,” said Quentin. “I don’t see 
why-” 

“I should rather,” said Alixe. “Count St. Aubin 
is very fond of making experiments, and I am always 
fearing some accident.” 

“ And what about the Count himself? ” asked 
Quentin. 

“That goes without saying,” answered Alixe 
coldly. “But I have given up expostulating with 
him long ago. He used to have very simple chemi¬ 
cals, and I used to delight in helping him, but he 
has grown learned of late, and he says that he has 
left me behind. I have discovered that there are 
some things which a woman cannot compass, Mr 
Quentin.” 

There was the sound of flying feet from the direc¬ 
tion of the chateau. 

“ Alixe! Alixe! ” called Gartha, when yet some dis¬ 
tance along the terrace. “ Mamasha wishes you to 


THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 101 


know that the dinner will be in the chateau to-night, 
in honor of the Lord Eldon.” 

“ Lord Eldon! ” exclaimed Alixe. 

“ Yes, the Lord Eldon, and Uncle Bruno, and Mon¬ 
sieur le Maurier. They have both sent the messages, 
and Mamasha says that this time she hopes you 
dress yourself de rigueur.” 

“I will remember, Gartha,” said Alixe, smiling her 
answer. She bowed to Quentin and proceeded along 
the terrace. 

“Mr. le Maurier is coming,” screamed Miss Spen¬ 
cer to Quentin as she met him on the terrace. “ He’s 
the man that edits a blue book, or a purple book, or 
something esthetic, or supposed to be. He gets it 
up in the most anaesthetic manner. I always go to 
sleep when it comes in the house.” 

“ Uncle Bruno! Uncle Bruno! ” called Gartha im¬ 
patiently from under the chalet balcony. 

"What is it, Gartha? ” The low head was pushed 
out just over the balcony rail. 

" Mamasha wants you to know that you are to be 
en frac, de rigueur, this evening, of the best manner 
possible. The Lord Eldon is coming; he has tele¬ 
graphed, and Monsieur le Maurier.” 

“ I don’t see why I should dress for Lord Eldon at 
Madame’s orders,” said Bruno impatiently. "I am 
quite tired out, and as for that little editor—however, 
tell Mamasha I will obey, and tell Alixe, Gartha, 
Gartha! do you hear me? Tell Alixe that I wish her 
to make herself handsome.” 

"She does not have to make herself handsome, 
Uncle Bruno. Mamasha said that I am to tell you 
to try not to have an esplosion before dinner, because 
they will leave to-night, and we have not enough of 


102 THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 

fiacres to get them to their trains. Mon Dieu, non! 
Miss Spencer, and Miss Tliorndyke, and Lady Barnes 
are all especting petits bleus that they are wanted in 
Paris at once. The Baroness will not have none, be¬ 
cause she has no hotel of her own, and Mademoiselle 
will have to stay until Mamasha shall pay her bill 
for me.” 

“At her same old tricks.” St. Aubin laughed un¬ 
pleasantly. 

“ But,” continued Gartha, “ she has asked Mamasha 
to change ses appartements, move her to the other 
side of the chateau. They are all packing their 
chiffons and lots of them are going in the first train 
which comes in the morning.” 

“ No matter how dark a day it is, there is always 
something to be thankful for,” said the Count laugh¬ 
ing again.” 

“ And they are begging of Mamasha, all but beg¬ 
ging of her, to have all their dinners—les repas, 
you know—in the chateau, until they do leave. They 
all pretend it is the business, or the sickness, or 
some engagement, but we know the reason, do we 
not, Uncle Bruno? Te souviens-tu, mon clier oncle, 
when 'you have burned my cat and have frappe a 
hole in the chalet wall? ” 

“That is another thing to thank Providence for, 
Gartha, burning the cat! ” returned St. Aubin piously. 
“Always remember that! So the dear old maids are 
going! So much the better. Who is in the other 
wing, Gartha?” 

“An American monsieur , a Mr. Quentin. Made¬ 
moiselle says he is tres gentil. Ada Spencer, she 
says, has set her cap with him already. What is it 
to set a cap, Uncle Bruno? ” 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 103 


“One of Mamaska’s latest?” asked St. Aubin, not 
answering the child’s question. 

“The very latest,” said Gartha. “Mamaska goes 
to adore that Mr. Quentin. One can see that with 
a blow of the eye. She regards him, that Mr. Quen¬ 
tin, with a maniere adorable. I think she would have 
place him in the other wing if she had known you 
were coming, Uncle Bruno.” 

At this doubtful compliment, St. Aubin gave vent 
to the exclamation, “ Damned uncomfortable! ” He 
turned to the priest. “ What shall we do now, you 
lantern-jawed son of holy church? ” 

“ My advice would be to do nothing. To give it 
up,” replied Halle. 

“Just when we have got so far? Not I. You 
haven’t the sx>unk of a mouse, Bob. Do you know 
that I have just made fifty thousand francs, and 
when it is paid I shall hand five thousand of it over 
to you.” 

A look of cupidity came into the priest’s eyes. 
His face grew paler. “Five thousand francs!” he 
exclaimed. “ Five thousand francs! It seems worth 
all the risk, doesn’t it, Bruno? With such results, and 
yet—” He shook his head and put his hand over 
his eyes. “Have you seen the morning papers, 
Bruno? ” 

“Pschutt! Don’t be more of a woman than you 
can help ! What are you afraid of? ” 

“ I am afraid,” said Halle. “I am afraid, and that 
is the truth.” 

“Don’t begin to esplode until Yalery is out of the 
way, will you, Uncle Bruno?” It was the young 
voice of Gartha underneath the chalet window. 

“ Go away, Gartha! and do stop this talk of blow- 


104 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 

ing up. I have had very few accidents, that you 
know well.” 

“ I am not going away, Uncle Bruno. I am com¬ 
ing up, I wish to see those tuff-tuffs which you make 
—tuff-tuffs,” she repeated, looking proudly around 
her to see who might be listening. “That is the 
argot of the quartier, tuff-tuffs.” 

“ You are not coming up. Go to the chateau and 
tell Mamaslia that I shall obey her orders, and dress 
this evening ”—he turned to the priest—“ as becomes 
my manly figure, eh, Bob? ” Suddenly his face grew 
pallid underneath its tint of yellow. He raised his 
claw-like hands, and shook them in the air. “ How 
I hate the whole human race,” he said, between a 
shriek and a howl. “How I hate the Lord in 
heaven.” 

“ Stop, stop, Bruno! ” said Halle with a frightened 
look. “You must not say such words.” 

“ Look at me! ” said St. Aubin, turning his bent 
figure toward the priest. “ Look at me! I am a fine, 
shapely creature, am I not? A fine figure of a hus¬ 
band, made, as we are taught, after the image of God 
Almighty. That peerless young creature! She is fit 
to be an empress. Compare us. See how in her pity 
and good nature—and she loathes me, Halle, I can 
see it at every glance of her eye—see how she defrauds 
herself of her splendid height that she may try to 
come down to my level. My level! My physical 
level! She could never in God’s world come down 
to my moral level-” 

The priest was very pale. “She could never do 
that,” he said. “No, nor to the level of any man.” 

“When my aunt married her to me, Bob, Alixe 
seemed to imagine that as we had been good friends 


THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 105 


as cousins, we should continue that friendship as 
husband and wife. Imagine it, Halle! Two such 
marriages! Is there any remote nook in the extreme 
confines of hell, white-hot enough for our dear little 
Mamaslia? She escaped the Duke, but she has not 
escaped me.” 

“ Bruno, Bruno! Do not! ” said Halle. He leaned 
out of the window and drew in long breaths of air. 

“ When I see her as I saw her to-day—but come, 
Bob, I must open my boxes and get out something 
that will become me, as the husband of the Duchess. 
The beautiful young Duchess, and her gnome of a 
husband! We should act a play for our guests to¬ 
night ; it should be called £ Beauty and the Beast. ’ 
Here, Bob, take these keys and open the small box.” 
Halle caught the jangling ring thrown at him, knelt, 
and applied a small key to the lock of one of the 
boxes. He threw the lid upward. St. Aubin turned. 

"No, no, not that one!” Halle looked up at the 
fierce tone. St. Aubin’s face was convulsed with 
passion. “ May I never forget the cause of my pros¬ 
perity? Not for one moment? Must you always be 
reminding me of it? Fool! ” 

Halle winced as if he had been struck as he closed 
the lid and hid from view the mass of machinery, 
wheels, springs, cogs and levers. 

“ Lock it! ” commanded Bruno, “ and open the pale 
yellow box. That matches my complexion of cream 
and roses? That belongs to a gentleman, the husband 
of a Duchess; the box which you have just closed, to 
a devil from hell.” 


IX. 


When Quentin entered the great salon at eight 
o’clock, he found it full of people, among them sev¬ 
eral persons whom he had not seen before. Lady 
Barnes was there, and “the Jennings girls,” Miss 
Thorndyke, and Miss Spencer, and a florid little gen¬ 
tleman who was introduced as Lord Eldon. Every 
one was laughing at the little man’s jokes, Valery 
loudest of all. The Rastaquouere was a resplendent 
vision, and though dressed in customary suit of sol¬ 
emn black, his inevitable gorgeousness made the other 
men appear more or less as if they had not dressed at 
all. He had gone to the extreme, as ever, in decora¬ 
tion. The Count was there, and Father Halle; and 
who was that tall vision of loveliness standing near 
the flower-filled chimney place, talking with an old 
gentleman who bore a striking resemblance to Napo¬ 
leon Third? The old Russian hat in which he had 
seen her was gone. The beautiful hair was arranged 
in a coronet, a diamond tiara crowning the whole. 
The lovely shoulders were bare, as were the fair arms 
and hands. The gown of grey lisse sprinkled with 
cut steel, the necklace of diamonds and pearls sur¬ 
rounding the statuesque throat, the collar clasped at 
the back, the strings of pearls falling in rows upon 
her neck, enhanced her beauty and made a picture 
which Quentin never forgot. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 107 


“ She seems to carry all the family property on her 
person,” said Miss Spencer’s ubiquitous voice. “ You 
know what Harry Ware said, I suppose, that when 
the Duke died, she laid down her cross and took up 
her crown.” 

Quentin stood gazing spellbound at this wonderful 
picture, hardly hearing Miss Spencer’s words. 

“She has forgotten to stoop,” said Miss Spencer. 

“ A young goddess! ” he breathed. He heard as if 
in a dream Madame’s voice saying to Lord Eldon, 
“Have you seen the Paris journals?” and Lord El¬ 
don’s answer, “I saw them on the train.” He heard 
Valery say, “Mamasha, what a spoil-sport you are. 
You know very well that the Daniellis were on board 
that steamer. Don’t speak so loud, Alixe may hear 
you.” He heard another voice saying, “How our 
dear Mamasha loves a sensation.” Quentin turned 
and saw a little yellow creature who was looking 
upward at Madame, though she was a small woman. 

“We are speaking of a terrible accident at sea,” 
said Madame explanatorily in a lowered tone of 
voice. “Have you met the Count, Mr. Quentin? 
Bruno, this is my friend, Mr. Quentin. The Da- 
nielli girls have just been staying here, and Virginia 
was perhaps the dearest friend that Alixe had, in 
fact-” 

“I forbid you to tell the Duchess until to-mor¬ 
row,” said St. Aubin sharply. He had bowed 
slightly to Quentin, showing plainly by his speech 
and manner that he resented the familiar use of his 
wife’s name to an utter stranger. Quentin under¬ 
stood his intention, and turned away somewhat an¬ 
noyed, feeling that it was not his fault if Madame 
was at times a trifle underbred. 


108 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“Of course it was a French steamer,” said Lord 
Eldon. 

“ There you go with your British prejudices. Mr. 
Quentin, Lord Eldon,” said Madame parenthetically. 
“ No, unfortunately a German one, though why I say 
unfortunately I do not know. It is all unfortunate. 
Why! Bruno,” turning to him, “that is the very 
steamer you crossed in to Southampton, isn’t it? ” 

Quentin glanced at the Count and saw he was 
trembling slightly; the thought flashed through his 
mind that perhaps there was some one on board for 
whom the Count cared. Perhaps one of those girls 
who had been staying at the Abbey; and he now 
remembered that Miss Spencer had suggested, among 
the other bits of information which she had gratui¬ 
tously given him, that he (St. Aubin) had been more 
interested in her than propriety demanded. A feel¬ 
ing of resentment arose within his breast that the 
husband of that peerless woman could even think of 
any one else. 

“And the Daniellis were on board, weren’t they? ” 
inquired Miss Tliorndyke, who had joined the group. 

“Yes, they were on board,” answered St. Aubin, 
from stiff lips. 

“ Faith! you’ll never get a safe steamer till you get 
an Irish one,” said Yalery. “The green flag at the 
masthead.” 

Lord Eldon laughed tolerantly. 

“Madame is served,” said Charles from the open 
doors at the side of the salon. 

Charles stood near Madame, but he looked at his 
younger, legitimate mistress. Lord Eldon turned 
and surveyed the room. Madame bent toward him 
expectantly, but Lord Eldon, an old bird in diplo- 


THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 109 


macy and the usages of precedence, would rather break 
a friendship than make a mistake in the rules which 
no one knew better than he. He advanced toward 
AJixe and offered his arm, at the same moment that 
St. Aubin took Madame’s hand, and thrust it within 
his own. Madame bit her lip as she heard St. Aubin 
say: 

“ They may do it when I am away, but not when I 
am here. Come, Mamasha dear! Sit on my wife’s 
left, Mr. Quentin, if you please, and take the Bar¬ 
oness; Lady Barnes, on Lord Eldon’s right, I think, 
with Valery; the cards are all there, I suppose, but 
the table seems longer than usual somehow. Mon¬ 
sieur le Maurier, take Miss Jennings, on Madame’s 
left, if you please. Bob, pick up Miss Spencer,” and 
thus did Bruno, Count St. Aubin, marshal his forces, 
much to Madame’s chagrin and discomfiture. Bruno 
and Monsieur le Maurier were but a poor exchange 
for Lord Eldon and Quentin, her own particular 
friends, but there was nothing to be done, and Ma¬ 
dame knew when to submit. Her smile was as that 
of an angel as she took her place. Quentin, bewil¬ 
dered and astonished, found himself on the left of 
the young chatelaine. He gazed curiously at her for 
a moment as her nearer radiance enveloped him. 
Decidedly, Alixe, in the old Russian hat, and the 
concealing laces, and Alixe wearing a queen’s ransom 
upon her throat, her neck, her arms, a crown upon 
her lovely head, seemed two entirely different crea¬ 
tures, although Quentin found that there appeared 
to be no change in her own point of view or manner, 
because of these adornments. 

The conversation between Lord Eldon and Valery 
turned upon speculations and the value of modern 


110 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


investment, and tlie Rastaquouere sang the glories of 
the Rand and the result if a Briton, meaning an Irish¬ 
man, could once get “ a fair show.” “ I can’t see why 
you don’t come out there and invest, Bruno,” called 
Valery‘down the long table. 

St. Aubin thrust aside some flowers and vines to 
answer him. 

“ How much does your speculation out there bring 
you in, Valery? ” he asked. 

Valery, with ready and not too scrupulous imagi¬ 
nation, mentioned a sum whose size took away the 
breaths of the listeners. St. Aubin looked up at the 
priest. “Perhaps that would have been safer, Bob,” 
said he. The priest looked uneasy. 

“I am not a business man,” he replied, “and I 
know nothing absolutely of speculation, but if I 
were, I should certainly advise the Rand; certainly.” 

“But, you see Bruno doesn’t know anything about 
the Rand, and he does about inventions,” said Ma¬ 
dame. “ And then he is so kind-hearted! He could 
not bear to see those poor creatures work so hard out 
there. Now, in his inventive business, there is no 
need of his killing anybody but himself.” Madame 
had no fancy for seeing more of the fortune, which she 
had with such difficulty succeeded in obtaining, melt 
away into thin air. 

St. Aubin’s fork dropped from his hand to his 
plate with anything but a well-bred clatter. 

“ Mamasha! ” he said in a tone of annoyance, “ how 
often have I told you that I cannot bear to be talked 
about! ” 

“Modesty, Bruno! Modesty!” said Valery. 

“When does the first train leave in the morning? ” 
asked Miss Spencer, 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 111 


Madame caught the question. 

"At nine o’clock, I think, Ada. But surely you do 
not think of going away to-morrow.” 

“I think I must return.” Miss Spencer looked 
down at her plate, then up again. "And Mary 
Thorndyke is coming with me.” This addition in 
answer to an appealing look from Miss Thorndyke, 
who had begged her that at dinner she would 
make their causes one. "You see my aunt is ail¬ 
ing.” 

"Mary Thorndyke’s aunt isn’t ailing.” 

“But grandma is quite feeble, Madame, and I 
really think I must go too.” 

“ Will there be room in the wagonette for me and 
my secretary?” asked the elder Miss Jennings. "I 
find that I must go to the British Museum to exam¬ 
ine some books. I want to study a little and finish 
my researches before I go to Sir Henry’s on the 
twelfth.” 

“ Going shooting? ” inquired Valery from his seat 
down the table. 

“Do you shot ven you are there? ” inquired Made¬ 
moiselle. 

"I carry a gun generally,” answered Miss Jennings 
in a carelessly superior tone. 

" And leave the secretary to do the writing, I sup¬ 
pose,” said Valery. "Is that the way books are 
made?” and then, waiting for no answer, “Who are 
you going gunning for? Ought to be Bruno. See 
now, Bruno ’’—stretching his neck an inch from its 
covering, like a turtle overburdened with fat—" how 
you are frightening Miss Muffett away by the whole¬ 
sale.” 

"I cannot see what I have to do with the exodus,” 


112 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


said St. Aubin, carefully dissecting an artichoke. 
“ What a wretched apology for a vegetable this is! ” 

“ Why, Bruno, dear! ” replied Madame in a plain¬ 
tive tone. “ I had Jeannot cook them especially for 
you. You are always asking for them.” 

“A very poor way to eat a very good sauce,” re¬ 
marked Yalery. “Hand me the artichokes, Charles.” 

Meanwhile the dinner passed at Quentin’s end of 
the table, to him, as if it were a dream. He said but 
little, listening while Alixe, as he called her in his 
thoughts, discussed politics, English, French, and 
Russian, and the church, Protestant and Catholic, 
with Lord Eldon. 

When Alixe, looking at Madame, arose simultane¬ 
ously with her, and was escorted by Lord Eldon to 
the salon, and Quentin had deposited the Baroness 
there also, he returned to the dining-room, to find 
that the men servants had finished withdrawing the 
cloth. The wine was placed at one end of the table. 
Lord Eldon moved into Madame’s vacant seat next 
the Count, and the others closed up the spaces, by 
placing themselves in the seats left empty. 

The conversation,, which was resumed by Lord El¬ 
don, was of the loss of the Atlantic steamer. 

“ I read the account in the train as I was coming 
down here, ” said he. “ I did not mention it to your 
wife, because you asked me not to, or else you asked 
Madame, I forget which; but don’t you think it a 
very singular thing? The weather has been particu¬ 
larly good all this month. There has been no fog 
reported, and no other steamer reports a collision. 
They found, I believe, part of one of the boats, piece 
of the bow with the letters ‘—cean Mona—’ That 
proves it without doubt to be the Ocean Monarch, 


THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 113 


for whose arrival the owners have been looking for 
the last two weeks.” 

St. Aubin moistened his dry lips. 

“Ice, probably,” he said huskily. 

“ The brute! ” said Quentin to himself. “ To care 
for any other woman in the world.” 

He glanced at the priest, whose elbow was resting 
•on the table, his eyes shaded by his hand. Suddenly 
Halle raised his head, poured out and drank off a 
petit verre, then another, in such rapid haste that he 
coughed and strangled as the clear liquid ran down 
his throat. 

“You’re a good son of the church, Father Bob,” 
said Valery, laughing and patting Halle on the back. 
“See how accustomed they are to liquor. They 
never drink at all, you know, at least not in public; ” 
this with a sly wink at Lord Eldon. 

“The exception proves the rule,” said Lord Eldon. 
“ Verbum sat sapienti-” 

“Let him alone, can’t you, Valery? There’s noth¬ 
ing worse than having liquor go the wrong way.” 

“ Faith, I believe you, Bruno,” said Valery. “ And 
that’s down somebody else’s throat.” 

“If you will excuse me, Eldon,” said St. Aubin, “I 
will withdraw; I have had a very fatiguing trip.” 

“Went to Southampton, didn’t you?” asked Va¬ 
lery in an inquisitive tone. “ The second time since 
the Daniellis left, isn’t it? ” 

“ No, only the first. Yes, yes. I went to South¬ 
ampton. How you do keep harping on my going to 
Southampton. One would think no one ever went to 
Southampton before. As a matter of fact, thousands 
of people go to Southampton every year, and why my 

going should be considered at all pecu-” 

8 


114 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


Yalery looked up at St. Aubin in astonishment. 

“ Highty-tighty, we are touchy! What’s the mat¬ 
ter with you, Bruno? ” 

“ Bruno! ” said Halle, in a tone which had an 
undercurrent of warning in it. 

“ I remained in England a fortnight after— 
after-” 

“ Mamasha said you were going to stay with Lord 
Eldon, that you told her so,” said Yalery. 

“She must have misunderstood me,” said St. 
Aubin, glancing in an embarrassed manner at Lord 
Eldon’s surprised face. “I went to look at some 
chemical works. I think of investing in them, buy¬ 
ing some stock—they are making great improve¬ 
ments in-” 

“Sending good money after bad,” said Yalery. 

■ “What is it, Charles? ” said St. Aubin, to the ser¬ 
vant who had been standing behind him for some mo¬ 
ments and was at that moment first observed by him. 

“A person to see you, Monsieur le Comte,” said 
Charles in a low tone. 

“What! Who can it be at this hour? My God, 
Bruno!” The priest arose in apparent agitation; 
every trace of color had left his face. 

“ Hush! ” said St. Aubin, “ I will go and see.” He 
laid his arm round Halle’s shoulder. “You had bet¬ 
ter come away yourself, perhaps. He is not well, 
Yalery-•” 

“He said, sir,” began Charles. 

“ What the devil is it to you what he said? ” began 
St. Aubin. “You are forgetting your manners. I 
will come out to him.” 

Halle arose and joined St. Aubin and the two 
passed out of the door together. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 115 


“ Queer! ” said Yalery, looking after them. 

“Only a workman, monsieur,” said Charles, who 
loved to appear to know all that went on at the 
chateau. 

“ A workman! I thought it was a message about 
those unfortunate people. I never saw Halle so up¬ 
set. He can’t be well. They have been after him 
with a pretty sharp stick up there in Paris.” 

“He looks worse than I have ever seen him,” re¬ 
marked Monsieur le Maurier, who was credited with 
being a secret partner in the firm of one of the most 
prominent of Parisian journals. He then began to 
tell all that he knew of the loss of the Ocean Mon¬ 
arch. He piled horror on horror, until Quentin 
turned away, sick at heart. As he arose, he heard 
Yalery say to Lord Eldon: 

“Can there really be anything in the story that 
Ada Spencer is telling, of Bruno’s infatuation for 
Yirginia Danielli?” Lord Eldon’s answer he did 
not catch, for he had crossed the room and was in 
the grand salon. 


X. 


When St. Aubin and the priest emerged upon the 
terrace, they walked toward the chalet. 

“Where is the man, Pierre Monrouge? ” called the 
Count. 

“I am here, Monsieur,” said a voice from out the 
shadow. A form arose and came out from under the 
recess formed by the chalet pillars. The man wore 
the blouse of a workman. 

“Oh, it is you, Guerin,” said Halle. He drew a 
long breath, which was half a sigh of relief. “I 
thought it might be-” 

“Never mind what you thought,” said St. Aubin. 
“You are losing your mind, Bob. You talk too 
much. You must control yourself better. If you 
do not think of yourself, think of me— Well,” turn¬ 
ing to the workman, “ what have you to say to the 
Count? ” 

“I have something for the Count,” said the man in 
a clear tone of voice, whose owner was plainly con¬ 
scious of nothing that he wished to conceal. 

“Don’t roar so, my good man. There! There! 
Give it to me.” 

“The Father promised me that I should see the 
Count this time,” said the stranger, looking at 

Halle. 

“The Count is engaged with guests,” said St. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 117 


Aubin. “ Why did not you send for the Father here, 
instead of sending into the table for the Count? ” 

"He said that he would see me when I came 
again,” said the man doggedly. “You said so, Fa¬ 
ther. I want to ask him about a little patch of 
ground-” 

“I will carry your message to him,” said St. 
Aubin, “and send the Father back with the an¬ 
swer.” 

“It is always the same,” said the man turning 
impatiently away; “ they always say that he is away 
or engaged. It is a small patch of ground which 

adjoins a bit of my wife’s-” 

“ If you will write it down and send it here to the 
Count, I will see that he gets it and that he sends 
an answer,” said St. Aubin. ' 

“ And my payment for the little springs-” 

“I will pay for them,” said St. Aubin at once. 
“ Run to my room, Bob. You will find some loose 
change in my pockets, and some notes in the secre¬ 
taire. ” 

“The work is very incomplete,” said the man as 
Halle walked away. “I cannot see how it can be 

of use to the Count as it is, because-” 

“ Yes, yes, I know it is incomplete, my good man, 
but you have not seen the door on which the Count 
wishes to use it. You know he is quite an inventor, 
our Count, and you will not have to use it. It will 
be properly arranged by the Count himself.” 

“If the monsieur allow, I should like some food,” 
said the man humbly. “ I have walked a long dis¬ 
tance to arrive at this time, as I was ordered.” 

“It is true,” said St. Aubin. “But the Count told 
the Father, I thought, to meet you this evening, in 



118 THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


Paris—he could not get away. Mamasha is, as Val¬ 
ery says, a spoil-sport.” He said these last words 
to Halle, whose footsteps sounded near. 

“ Why didn’t you take the train and go to Paris as 
I told you?” said Halle. “I have been waiting for 
your petit bleu.” 

“It costs money to go to Paris, Father, and I did 
not know if the Count would be willing to pay 
for-” 

“ Not so loud, my man. It was distinctly under¬ 
stood, Guerin, that you were to take the train and 
go to Paris and that I was to meet you in the Hue 
Vaugirard. You were to telegraph me-” 

“People are lost in the great city,” said Guerin. 

“ Yes, that is exactly why I told you to—but what 
is the use of talking to— Which road did you take 
to come here? ” 

“ The South road, Father, along by the great farm 
of Monsieur d’Alben, and so round by Pontarles. It 
is a long walk. It took me two hours and over.” 

“And the trip to Paris would have taken you but 
little more, and you would have seen Paris. Did 
any one know you were coming here? ” 

“No, Father.” 

“ Your tongue will be the death of you, Bob, not to 
speak of some one much more important. Tell Eu¬ 
gene to get this man some food. He can eat it here 
and then be off.” 

“I could go to the kitchen, monsieur,” suggested 
the man. “It does not become me to allow the mon¬ 
sieur to order a servant to wait on me; I, a poor 
ouvrier-•” 

“Don’t moralize, my man. They are all busy in 
there. We have a great houseful to-night. Eat and 


THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 119 


drink, and then start back upon your road. Who is 
that? ” 

“ I am only enjoying the night, Monsieur le Comte.” 

“ And this is Monsieur le Comte! ” said the work¬ 
man turning to St. Aubin in astonishment. 

“No, no!” said Halle in a low tone. “This is 
another Count, the Count of—but what matter to 
you? Eat and drink, my good man, and be off. You 
have made your little springs very well, but see that 
you do not talk about them. When there is much 
talk of Kevenants, and one buys a little spring to 
close a door against the spirits-” 

“Good heavens, Halle! Will you never silence 
that tongue of yours? Give him his mone}'' and let 
him go.” These words from St. Aubin were said in 
Italian. Halle put some money into the man’s hand, 
at which the latter looked down in surprise. 

“It was to be only ten francs, and the Father has 
given me a louis.” 

“Nom de'Dieu, man! Have you no pity for my 
nerves, you with your eternal clack and cavilling? Is 
it not enough? Most men would be glad to get twice 
what they have earned. I pay you this because the 
Count has no place to offer you within the chateau.” 

“A very—remarkably—honest—man.” It was le 
Maurier’s voice. “ Why should he be paid twice what 
he has earned, Count? That is where you rich peo¬ 
ple spoil the market for us poorer ones-” 

“It is only because we cannot take him in to¬ 
night,” said St. Aubin. “ He can pay for his lodging 
at some auberge; ” and then, in a low tone, “ Send 
him off, Bob, my nerves are on edge.” 

St. Aubin went hurriedly toward the chalet and 
Halle waited to watch the man eat his food and drink 


120 THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 

his wine, and to see him out of the enclosure; while 
le Maurier paced up and down, up and down, con¬ 
cerned apparently with the doubtful beauty of the 
night. The moon was bright and wonderful at one 
moment, clouds covering its face at the next. When 
the man had finished his meal, and Pierre Mon¬ 
rouge had let him out of the gate, Halle followed 
St. Aubin toward the chalet. Le Maurier stood near 
the grille as the workman walked away. One could 
hear his heavy shoes clumping as he moved off to 
the right, away from the direction of Moncousis. 
When Halle had disappeared, and Pierre Monrouge 
had cleared away the workman’s plate and glass, Mr. 
le Maurier looked about him. The door into the 
salon was open, and within there was music, and 
sweet low talking, and laughter, and a glow of light, 
which made any movement on the terrace impossible 
to discern. He stepped close to the grille, unfast¬ 
ened it quietly, then opened the door, and closing it 
softly, he proceeded swiftly down the valley away 
from the direction of Moncousis, as had the me¬ 
chanic. 

Le Maurier was gone for an hour or more. When 
he gave the bell handle a gentle twitch, Pierre Mon¬ 
rouge came sleepily and opened it. Monsieur le 
Maurier’s face had a satisfied expression as he en¬ 
tered and was informed that all the guests, as well as 
the family, had retired. He did not tell Pierre Mon¬ 
rouge not to mention his late walk, that would im¬ 
press it upon his mind. He slipped in through the 
kitchen door. He crept softly to his bed in the new 
part of the chateau, and laid himself down with a 
smile upon his lips, and slept the sleep of “the just 
man made,” in his own mind, almost “perfect.” 


XI. 


That night, before Quentin slept, lie experienced 
some strange sensations. He heard noises and mys¬ 
terious whispers, and once or twice he thought that 
he heard near footfalls whose sound was carefully 
subdued, but on sitting up in his bed and lighting 
his short candle end, he found that he was quite 
alone. He went into the dressing room, and pene¬ 
trated still further into the closet, but there he found 
no cause for these investigations. The wind, coming 
from he knew not where, extinguished his candle. 
He relighted it; again he was left in darkness. He 
then scratched a match and held the flame close to 
the candle, when by its light he saw that the wick was 
at an end, though there was still an inch or two of the 
wax left. He searched for another candle, but though 
he scratched matches without number, he could not 
discover one of the half dozen which he had noticed 
the evening before when he had dressed for dinner. 
Things began to look careless or serious, he knew not 
which. He threw his window wide. The open half 
flew back and struck against the vines of the balcony. 
The moon streamed palely in, but made the corners 
of the room only darker than before. He pulled to 
the door between the rooms, but now, with an ac¬ 
knowledged chill in his bones, so that after begin¬ 
ning to undress, he went over and bolted it. He 


122 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


then returned to tlie window and looked across at the 
ruins. He fancied that he saw something moving 
outside the walls. He turned and glanced at the 
second story of the chateau. There was a bright light 
there, and he saw that a figure was pacing up and 
down, up and down. Sometimes the hands and arms 
were raised to heaven, showing grotesque and gigan¬ 
tic upon the white shade. Sometimes the head was 
bowed upon the breast in the attitude which beto¬ 
kens despair. Was this a ghostly visitant too? Was 
this the room where the Lady Abbess was said to 
walk? Suddenly Quentin felt a blast of cold air upon 
his back. He turned. The door which he had bolted 
was slowly opening. The room was dark and the 
room beyond that darker still. He heard again the 
whispering noise and then a long-drawn sigh; an 
unmistakable sigh. Quentin, who had ever been 
a sceptic of the truth of appearances supernatural, 
began to believe that, at last, he was to be convinced 
as to their reality. He went to his bed, and, with 
an effort, he succeeded in pushing the great old-fash¬ 
ioned piece of furniture across the room. He planted 
it against the door which he had again closed and 
then lay down. As he lay there, he heard some¬ 
thing moving in the dressing room. There were 
rustlings against the further panels, but he was 
determinedly collecting his thoughts for slumber, 
when suddenly there came three raps upon his 
outer door. 

Quentin sprang up, went to the door and opened it. 
The blackness of utter darkness greeted him, for the 
lantern was out. 

He stood there for a moment, irresolute, peering 
down the black stairway. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 123 


"Well? Well?” lie shouted. "What is it? Who 
is it? ” 

There was silence for a moment more, and then he 
heard the key turn in the lock of the opposite door, 
and some one call, "Who is there? ” At the same 
time St. Aubin threw his door open. 

He stood there, a small, yellow creature, in a suit 
of night clothes as yellow as himself. He held a 
lighted candle which shed a feeble glow upon his 
figure. 

“It is I,” said Quentin. “I heard a rap at my 

door and thought it was-” 

" It is too bad for Mamasha to put you in those 
rooms, Mr. Quentin,” said St. Aubin. “She always 
plays that trick upon strangers to convince herself, 
through them, I believe, of the truth. No friend is 
too sacred for Mamasha’s sacrificial altar. The wind 
is never tempered to her shorn lambs. Has she told 

you nothing about those-” 

" She asked me if I was nervous. I am not partic¬ 
ularly nervous, but I should be glad to get some 
sleep. It must be quite late. I shouldn’t mind if 
I could sleep through it.” 

"Ah! That’s what I am afraid you cannot do,” 
said St. Aubin. “ If you will come to my rooms I 
will give you my bed. I often sleep in a chair. Fa¬ 
ther Halle is snoring in beyond there like a good son 
of the church with a quiet conscience. My third room 
is full of bottles, or I would go in there myself, but I 

have only two beds; you are welcome to mine-” 

Quentin, ashamed to show so much appearance of 
nervousness as to accept this offered asylum from St. 
Aubin, or to dislodge him from his bed, laughed, 
saying: 


124 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“Oh, no! I don’t mind. It was probably my 
imagination. ” 

“No,” said St. Anbin. “ It wasn’t that, I am afraid. 
Good night then. I must really speak seriously to 
Mamasha about this to-morrow. Mamasha is a very 
charming little person, but she will sacrifice her best 
and dearest for a mystery. Good night,” and St. 
Aubin closed his door, rather more quickty, Quentin 
thought, than necessary. He heard the key turn with 
a feeling of desolation and returned from the chilly 
landing to his own room and bolted his door, and 
then he remembered that he might have asked the 
Count for a candle, but ho was ashamed to disturb 
him again, and so lay down. Again he heard some 
raps underneath his bed and others upon the outer 
door, and once he heard a low laugh behind the door, 
at the head of his bed, then came one tremendous 
blow upon the panel, a thump heavy enough, he 
thought, to crush it in, then all disturbing sounds 
ceased, and he fell asleep. 


xn. 


"When Quentin awoke it was broad day. He found, 
on consulting his watch, that it was nearly eight 
o’clock. Arising, he pushed his bed back into place, 
and then opened the door into the dressing room. 
Within, all was as he had left it the night before. 
He went into the further room. A gust of air re¬ 
minded him of the staircase. Suddenly he decided 
to descend it. The door at the bottom was not bolted, 
but it was locked, and the key had been withdrawn. 
Puzzled by this, Quentin ascended the staircase 
again, took his bath, then returned to his room and 
dressed. 

He came out on to the landing just as St. Aubin 
emerged from his room on the other side. A feeling 
of pity for the man arose within his breast, he was 
so unlike the rest of the human race. He answered 
the Count’s greeting and followed the short mis¬ 
shapen figure down the stairs. The trellissed alcove 
was bare of guests, the table unset. As he neared 
the chateau, he saw that there were many travelling 
boxes standing near the gate, but within the great 
dining room no one was visible. Following St. Au¬ 
bin’s lead, Quentin passed through this room and 
found himself in a much smaller apartment, which 
he now saw for the first time. Here people were sit¬ 
ting about at small tables drinking their early coffee, 


126 THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


which the men servants were handing, and eating the 
usual light meal which is customary in France. 
There was a balcony outside. There Quentin pene¬ 
trated, and found several of the guests taking their 
breakfast in the bright morning sunshine. Among 
them were Lord Eldon and Madame. Madame wore 
a round hat and a veil, which hung loosely downward 
and met the filmy lace of the scarf that encircled her 
throat. Alixe was not to be seen. 

“Ah! there you are,” called Madame brightly. 
“Come over here, my friend, and tell me how you 
slept.” 

“Not well, I fear,” said St. Aubin, who had halted 
at Madame’s elbow. “You call Mr. Quentin your 
friend, Mamasha, and yet you put him in the room 
at the head of the chalet stairs.” St. Aubin’s words 
were spoken in italics, as it were. 

“I have always thought it half imagination,” said 
Madame a little shamefacedly. “Were you dis¬ 
turbed, Mr. Quentin?” 

Quentin was able to laugh carelessly. 

“ Do I look as if I had not slept? ” he asked. 

Lord Eldon scrutinized him carefully. In Quen¬ 
tin’s fine color and thoroughly rested look, he per¬ 
ceived no sign of nervousness. 

“ Will you change your rooms and come over to the 
chateau? ” asked Madame, with almost a tender note 
in her voice. “ You see that presently we shall have 
any amount of room.” 

Quentin glanced in at the open French window. 
In almost every instance the women wore travelling 
dresses and bonnets, and most of the men were in 
rough tweed suits with alpine or straw hats lying 
close at hand. Had Quentin needed to be told that 


THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 127 


there was to be an exoclns that morning, that fact had 
already been openly confided to him through the 
piles of luggage which had been seen on the terrace. 
He thought that he, of all Madame’s guests, had the 
best reason for a sudden departure, but he determined 
to remain at the Abbey for the length of time for 
which he had originally been invited, even though no 
one had so much cause to take flight as himself, for, 
whether there had or had not been manifestations of 
a supernatural character, he was willing to endure a 
recurrence of them only so that he might fill out his 
allotted time at l’Abbaye de Bref. 

“What happened?” asked Lord Eldon. “Any¬ 
thing really authentic? You know I belong to the 
Psychical Kesearch Society, and I shall be glad to 
report it for the benefit of the Society if you will give 
it to me in writing. Any witnesses, corroborative 
evidence, and that sort of thing? ” 

“Don’t, Lord Eldon!” exclaimed Madame. “It 
will aid only in giving the chateau a bad name.” 

“But in the interests of science, dear lady-” 

“Why shouldn’t people know?” said St. Aubin. 
“I’m sure you do your best to let them know, Ma- 
masha. The place is haunted beyond a doubt. If 
Eldon is sceptical, he had better change rooms for 
the night with Mr. Quentin.” 

“Bather allow me to occupy one of Mr. Quentin’s 
rooms,” said the rosy little gentleman. He rubbed 
his hands. “I should enjoy it immensely. I have 
never seen or heard anything of the kind, though you 
know the blue room at Eldon Towers is said to be 
haunted.” 

“You could not share Quentin’s rooms,” said St. 
Aubin decidedly. “ In the first place they are too 


128 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


cramped for any one man as they are, and in the 
second place the things, whatever they are, never 
appear to two persons at the same time. You must 
be alone.” 

Madame allowed her head to fall backward, she 
looked up out of veil-screened eyes at Quentin. 
“What did you see?” she asked in an undertone, 
and then added penitently, “Do forgive me.” 

“I saw nothing, nothing at all, I assure you.” 
Quentin’s tone was cold. Whatever the cause of his 
discomfiture on the previous night, he had gathered 
from the Count that Madame had expected it, and 
that she had not been unwilling to make him a vic¬ 
tim to her curiosity. 

“ And you heard-” 

“ A few raps perhaps, but nothing else. Any one 
could have done that. A person standing underneath 
the floor of my room in the recess where we break¬ 
fast, could amuse himself and frighten a nervous 
person by the hour, if only he had a pole that was 
long enough. Fortunately, I am not a nervous per¬ 
son-” 

“Did not the door open? ” asked St. Aubin. 

“Who told you that, Count?” asked Quentin 
quickly. 

“You told me yourself.” 

“No,” said Quentin, “I don’t think I did. I 
couldn’t have done so. It did not occur until after 
I went back to my room, and I-” 

“Well, well, then, this morning as we came over to 
the chateau.” 

Quentin was quite certain that he had not men¬ 
tioned the fact, though he now thought that it had 
occurred before he opened his room door. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 129 


“ But even if you liad not told me, I should have 
known it. It is one of Mamasha’s expected things 
that always happen.” 

“Hush!” exclaimed Madame, sotto voce, sending 
her glance swiftly round the listening group. 

“You needn’t mind us, Mamasha,” called Miss 
Spencer familiarly. “We all know those alluring 
stories, but we are much more afraid of the living 
than we are of the dead; ” this with a sidewise glance 
at St. Aubin, parting retribution for some earlier real 
or fancied slight. 

“A few harmless chemicals,” said he, with a short 
laugh. “I had a little accident once, Quentin, and 
the dear old ladies never let me forget it. I haven’t 
had one for years.” 

“ If we get away without another, I, for one, shall 
be happy,” returned Miss Spencer spitefully. Being 
classed with the dear old ladies was too much for her 
equanimity. “I admit that it was not so bad an 
accident as that of the Ocean Monarch.” 

St. Aubin turned his back on the speaker and said 
hastily to Madame, “ Where is Alixe this morning, 
Mamasha? ” 

“She is in bed,” replied Madame. “She had a 
sleepless night, at least she says so, but it is my 
experience that people sleep much more than they 
think they do. Now I, who never really close my 
eyes before three or four in the morning-” 

“ Oh, Mamasha! what a bad conscience you must 
have,” said Bruno with playful earnestness. 

“She said that she could see no one,” continued 
Madame, ignoring Bruno’s remark. “But likely as 
not, if I go up there, she will be off among the hills. 
She may be miles away by this time. Alixe is a 
9 


130 THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


great walker. She heard in some way late last night 
about the Daniellis.” 

“ Heavens! how you do harp on-” 

“ She can shut herself within the iron doors of the 
Abbess’s room,” continued Madame, drowning St. 
Aubin’s reproof, “ and no one can disturb her. Some 
people are so selfish in their grief. I loved Virginia 
Danielli as if she were my own chi—niece, but for 
me I must always go about wearing a smiling mask 
before the world.” 

“01i, ze heartless whorl!” commented the Bar¬ 
oness, who was gazing up at St. Aubin as if begging 
him to spare her life yet another day. 

Here Charles appeared at the window opening 
upon the balcony. 

“ The landau and the char-a-bancs are at the door, 
Madame.” 

“And my boxes?” chanted Lady Barnes, Miss 
Spencer and Miss Thorndyke in a soprano chorus. 

“They are half way to the station by this time,” 
said the Count. “ I saw to that myself-” 

“ Oh, thank you! so good of you! ” exclaimed all 
three, and then looked at Bruno to see that he had 
obliged himself more than them. There was the 
bustle and stir of rising. 

“Must you go?” exclaimed Madame. “I am so 
sorry. Alixe will be too. She would wish me to say 
good-bye to you all. She cannot see you. She heard 
only late last night of the loss of the Ocean Monarch. ” 

“ Mamasha! ” said Bruno. “ How you do love to 
sup full with horrors-” 

“ And she has not slept at all, so she says. For 
me, I must always wear a smiling mask, etc., etc., 
etc.” 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 131 


Quentin, as lie lieard these words, thought that he 
understood the reason for the lonely light which he 
had seen in the night time from his window in the 
chalet, and the cause for the shadow upon the curtain 
and the despairing march to and fro. 

“She will get over it,” said Yalery. "We all have 
to get over these things. My aunt was going out to 
India, when I was a little chap, and she was lost. 
She left me a tidy little sum, the foundation of my 
fortunes, and much as I loved her, I was in a meas¬ 
ure comforted for her loss. It’s dreadful to gain by 
the death of any one who is dear to you, but you 
can’t help being more resigned than if you get not 
a sou marque. Isn’t that’so, Bruno? Hulloa, man, 
wliat’s the matter? ” 

St. Aubin was staggering backward, his hands out¬ 
stretched to grasp the table, something, anything, 
that he need not fall. He stumbled against a chair 
and seated himself suddenly, trembling. 

“It’s pretty dreadful,” whispered Miss Spencer to 
Quentin, “to wake up some fine morning and find 
that the girl you love is dead, but why one should 
mourn departed friends when one has a handsome 
wife of one’s own, and that wife has a handsome for¬ 
tune of her own-” 

“Don’t ask me to believe such a thing,” said Quen¬ 
tin. “ No one could imagine for a moment-” 

“Well, I didn’t until I saw him last evening. They 
were here just before they sailed—the Daniellis, I 
mean. Bruno did not seem particularly attentive to 
Virginia then, but he went off at almost a moment’s 
notice, and they had a convenient telegram and 
started the next day-” 

“The convenient telegram was, I believe, to the 



132 THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


effect that a brother of those people was dying. 
There could have been no collusion in that-” 

“ At all events they happened to join the steamer 
at Southampton in which he had crossed from Ham¬ 
burg. They say that he tried to get them to wait for 
the next steamer, but they were set on going. Alixe 
is, certainly, with all her faults, the least exigeante 
of wives. She cared more for Virginia Danielli than 
for forty thousand Brunos, and we see how much he 
cared for Virginia, as he nearly faints away every 
time her name is mentioned.” 

“ One would feel the loss of any friend in that ter¬ 
ribly tragic way,” said Quentin. He glanced at the 
pallid man seated by the table pretending to drink 
coffee from a spoon which trembled so that the brown 
liquid ran down upon his shirt front. 

“ But come! ” said Miss Spencer. “ I must get 
into the landau. I hate a wagonette, and they are 
sure to have one. I cannot ride backward. Mama- 
ska is sure to save the pony chaise, which I dote on, 
for that ‘ first ride together. ’ ” She looked archly at 
Quentin, then turned and rustled out through the 
salon. At the door she turned again and‘laid her 
well-gloved hand on Quentin’s arm. “Promise me 
one thing,” she said. “Don’t, if you love me, stay 
in that dreadful chalet another night.” 

The question of love for Miss Spencer had not 
entered into the mind of Quentin to conceive, but he 
answered gaily, 

“ I am not afraid of spirits. When they find that 
I do not-” 

“ I am not thinking of heavenly spirits, not of ele¬ 
mental, nor of those who because of their sins have 
not been able to get away from the first or inner 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 133 


circle that Lord Eldon is always talking about, but 
of a very earthly spirit, Cliristian-named Bruno. Be 
careful how you offend him. I wouldn’t sleep under 
that roof with all those chemicals for all the— Yes, 
yes, Mary Thorndyke. I am coming, save a seat for 
me. Good-bye, again! Come to see me in Paris 
when you come up, Rue Francois Premier, or better 
still, meet me at Eldon Towers. I am going there a 
little later. Lady Alfred is an old friend of mine— 
Au revoir, in Paris.” 

Quentin followed his voluble friend out on to the 
terrace. As he stepped from the salon to the stone 
at the door he heard a faint shriek. There stood the 
Baroness pointing with her small brown finger at 
some demijohns which had been placed on the ter¬ 
race while they had been at breakfast. 

“Nitro-glycerine. I know it is,” said Miss Thorn- 
dyke in a hurried whisper. “Come! dear Lady 
Barnes. Let us get into the landau before they dis¬ 
member us quite.” 

St. Aubin by this time had also appeared upon the 
terrace. His voice seemed to have regained its 
strength. 

“Drive the horses very slowly, Pierre Monrouge,” 
he said seriously. “ Even the rumble of the wheels 
is apt to explode them, they are so very sensitive.” 

“ Oh! ” shrieked Miss Jennings from the high front 
seat of the wagonette where she had taken her place 
by Eugene. “ Is there no other way to the station? ” 

“Es gibt kein anderen weg nach Kussnach,” de¬ 
clared St. Aubin, his low spirits flown to the winds, 
his face full of a concealed amusement. 

“Wrap the horses’ feet in dusters or something,” 
screamed Lady Barnes. “ Muffle them. Here, take 


134 THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


my shawl. The carriage robes, anything—perhaps 
I could walk,” but Pierre Monrouge, at a signal from 
St. Aubin, had started off, a dull smile pervading his 
countenance. Lady Barnes was pulled down into her 
seat by Miss Thorndyke. She immediately thrust 
her fingers as far within her ears as her veil would 
allow, and shrank into the extreme corner of the car¬ 
riage until they were a good mile from the Abbey. 
When the last of the guests had driven away, St. 
Aubin called to Charles to bring some glasses. 

“What for, Bruno?” asked Madame anxiously. 
“Don’t try anything here, I beg of you, Bruno.” 

St. Aubin was tugging at one of the great bottles, 
trying to raise it to the table in the recess. When 
he had succeeded, he uncorked the demijohn. “Be 
quick with those glasses, Charles! ” he called impa¬ 
tiently. 

“ Oh, Bruno! Do not, I pray, I beg-” 

St. Aubin tipped the neck of the demijohn and 
filled one of the glasses held ready by Charles. 

“Bring some ice, Charles. Have a taste, Mama- 
sha? No? It is only Evian, the purest water I 
believe that Switzerland affords.” 

Lord Eldon burst into a hearty fit of laughter, and 
Yalery doubled up like the blade of a knife, and 
chuckled internally until he was crimson. 

“Bruno,” he said, “Bruno, I’ll back you to play a 
practical joke with any man alive. Now we shall 
have the chateau all to ourselves. Mademoiselle, 
Baroness, Quentin, try some of St. Aubin’s nitro¬ 
glycerine.” 

“Yes,” said St. Aubin, “wasn’t it fortunate that 
the coming of the Evian and myself were simulta¬ 
neous? ” 


XIII. 


Quentin had seen nothing that day of the young 
mistress of the house—as he was now beginning to 
consider her. So far as he was concerned she had 
wrapped herself within that impenetrable veil which 
friendship may not unfold, which curiosity may not 
peep under, which derision and scorn have no power 
to force aside, the mantle of the dignity of silence. 
Quentin played billiards with Yalery all the morning 
and listened to his amusing comments on Madame’s 
aid in the opening of his boxes. 

“She wants most of the universe,” said Yalery, 
“ but I told her that I should like her to reserve a 
few of the ragged edges for Alixe and Gartha, where¬ 
upon she sighed. You know that patient sigh, a 
sort of put-upon sigh, that makes you feel that you 
have done nothing but impose upon her from time 
immemorial, and she said, ‘Dear Yalery, Alixe and 
Gartha will have everything after I am gone.’ You 
would think Mamasha a woman of eighty when she 
is trying to get round the family, whereas she is only 
forty-three at the most.” Quentin gave a start. He 
had thought his friend perhaps ten years younger. 

Betrayed into expressing himself by Yalery’s 
frankness he exclaimed: 

“ She can’t be that! ” 

“Who? Mamasha? Oh, yes, she is. She’s a very 


136 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


wonderful-looking woman, but slie is older than she 
looks. Let—me—see, Mamaslia was married at sev¬ 
enteen. Oh, yes, that’s gospel; I know it,” seeing 
the look of disbelief in Quentin’s eyes. “ My little 
wife,” a wave of sadness passed over Valery’s face as 
he said these words—"My little wife was born the 
year after Mamaslia was married, when Mamasha 
was eighteen, in fact. Alixe was born when Mamasha 
was twenty-four with a few months to the good. 
Twice nineteen, well, call Mamasha about forty-three. 
Women have done some fatal work when they were 
on the wrong side of forty. You know about the 
General; he was probably Mamasha’s second. Ma- 
maslia’s past is shrouded in mystery—before Carle- 
ton, the deluge. It was great enough, however, to 
wash out any other footprints which were traced in 
Mamasha’s sands of time.” 

“Carleton?” said Quentin inquiringly. “Oh, 
yes! I remember you told me something of the 
kind. ” He saw in memory the white headstone which 
contained the name of Allaire Carleton. This name 
was now to be explained by his frank friend. 

“There! I’ve miscued. You can’t even talk of 
Mamasha, Quentin, and not get into a scrape. After 
Mamasha’s second died, the old General, you know ” 
—Quentin nodded his head under standingly, and 
chalked his cue—“Lady Barnes came to congratu— 
I mean, condole with Mamasha. Lady Barnes had 
been freed from old Barnes for four or five months. 
He was a dreadful old rip. He had married the 
widow Thatcher. People called her the widower 
catcher. Well, to return to the episode. There! I 
missed my shot.” 

Quentin made a bridge with his fingers and leaned 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 137 


over the table, apparently giving all his attention to 
his next stroke. 

“ Well, the two met. The one all tears and gush, 
the other all smiles and sympathy. Mamasha, they 
say, sat smoothing her crepe and looking down. 
Alixe, Mademoiselle says, bought it for her at fifty- 
five francs the metre. Well, there she sat, smoothing 
it down and looking on the floor. 

This is the second time, ’ she said, 4 the second 
time. ’ The tears dropped on a black-bordered hand¬ 
kerchief, warranted to catch ’em without letting ’em 
soak through and spoil the cr&pe. 

“Lady Barnes smoothed her ten-francs-a-metre 
crepe in accompaniment to Mamasha’s motions. Old 
Barnes had left her low in funds. She looked up at 
Mamasha with a hard bright smile. 

“ ‘ It is the second time with me, too, Annie Carle- 
ton, ’ she said, ‘ but I live in the hope that there may 
be yet another. One can do nothing but try, you 
know!”’ 

“I should think Lady Barnes would hardly try 
again to any purpose,” said Quentin, smiling at the 
story. 

“Ah! but Mamasha. There’s the girl for you! I 
have a great admiration for Mamasha. She can fasci¬ 
nate any one. There was a little American here 
named Ware, a common little outsider. She brought 
him home, and made him fetch and carry for her 
until I was absolutely almost tempted to tell him 
her age, but Alixe saved me the trouble. There! can 
you carom like that? Five cushions and the red 
ball! Pretty fair, I call that.” 

“What did she do?” asked Quentin breathlessly, 
fearing to hear he knew not what. 


138 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“Who? Alixe? Why, she only came home, that 
was all. She never looked at the little beggar of 
course, but after that Mamasha’s puddin’ was all 
dough. She’s got a pretty level head, has Mamaslia, 
with it all. The only mistake she made was marry¬ 
ing Alixe to that little inventor Bruno. He’s a good 
enough fellow, as men go, but he’s a perfect spend¬ 
thrift. No head at all! He sends good money after 
bad with the greatest equanimity. No fortune can 
stand a strain like that, you know. My little wife ” 
—a sigh—“and Alixe, were the only children Mama- 
slia ever had.” 

“ The only children! ” gasped Quentin, finding his 
idol tottering, though he had been almost assured in 
his own mind of the truth since the morning in the 
glade. 

“Yes, the only ones. Didn’t know she was Al- 
ixe’s mother? I declare! I had forgotten the little 
fraud Mamaslia likes to practise. Oh, yes! she is 
my little Gartha’s grandmother straight enough, a 
pretty young-looking one you’ll admit.” 

“ Yalery ! Valery ! ” It was Madame’s sweet high 
voice. It came from her seat under the spreading 
tree upon the terrace. 

“Coming! Coming, Mamaslia! Just knock the 
balls about, will you, Quentin, till I get back. I 
wouldn’t for the world let her know that I told you. 
I spoiled another little game of hers once quite unin¬ 
tentionally, not Harry Ware—some one else who 
was— Coming, coming, Mamaslia;” and Yalery 
ran out of the room cue in hand. 

Quentin pushed the balls about thinking deeply. 
Meanwhile he caught a glimpse through the open door 
of a tall black figure, passing out of a further entrance. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 139 


It was Alixe. Her face looked drawn and sad, even 
at tliat distance, and Quentin judged that she had 
shed many tears. Had he but known it, they were 
even now welling over from her eyes and dropping 
down upon her black dress. A few minutes later he 
heard Valery’s goodly sole crushing the gravel of 
the terrace. He joined Quentin with a self-satisfied 
air. 

"Now, if you don’t say anything, she’ll never 
know I told you,” was his first remark. "She asked 
me to remember my promise, and I told her I would. 
She then repeated what she has said to me a hundred 
times, that people have said that it was a very unnatu¬ 
ral marriage, and that she preferred to pose as the 
aunt of Alixe, and let people think she had nothing 
to do with it. Did you ever hear such a lame reason 
as that? But I suppose it’s all she could think of. 
Poor old Mamaslia! There! I miscued again. That’s 
what comes of talking of Mamasha. She’s sure to 
get me into a mess sooner or later.” 

Meanwhile Alixe had joined Madame on the ter¬ 
race. 

"You are a perfect fright, Alixe,” was Madame’s 
greeting. " I never saw any woman look as ugly as 
you do when you cry. Your nose is all out of shape, 
your eyelids are like bags, your-” 

"I know it,” answered Alixe. "It makes me really 
ill to cry. I hate to cry, but oh, mother-” 

" Hush! ” Madame looked quickly toward the 
salon windows. 

"Pardon me,” said Alixe. "I am not considering 
appearances to-day. Oh! To think of it! Virginia 
dead! Drowned! Lost in that dark cold water. 
I shall never forget it. Never, never! I saw her all 


140 THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


last niglit holding up her hands. She was holding 
up her hands, my little Virginia, she was—calling- 
calling-” 

“ Who? ” asked St. Aubin abruptly. He had 
joined them. 

"Virginia Danielli,” answered Alixe in a heart¬ 
broken voice. “She was sinking down, down into 
that icy sea. It was so black, so black! The great 
waves were curling over her head, and she was hold¬ 
ing up her hands. You know what pretty hands 
Virginia had, Bruno. She did not turn to me. It 
was so strange, Bruno, she turned to you and begged 
you to save her, only to stretch out your hand, and 
you turned away, Bruno. You would not. Oh! you 
would not.” 

“You must have slept a little, then, Alixe,” said 
Madame impatiently. “For that part of it must 
have been a dream. Bruno was not within-” 

“ No, no! It was not a dream. A waking dream 
if you will, for I walked the floor the long night 
through. I saw her ever, Virginia, my one dear 
friend, in that great expanse of sea. Bruno looked 
at her so coldly, so sarcastically almost. He did not 
stretch out his hand—did not ” 

“What! what! Bruno? Alixe, do you think that 
no one has any feeling but yourself? Look at my 
poor boy! Eugene! Eugene! Go! Go! Some 
brandy, quick! quick! for heaven’s sake!” 

“Oh! forgive me, Bruno, forgive me,” said Alixe 
bending over the now prostrate man. 

“ You know how weak his heart is, Alixe. How 
can you be so forgetful of everyone but-” 

“ I was thoughtless, thoughtless! ” said Alixe, al¬ 
ways ready to blame herself. “Run, Eugene, run! 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 141 


Oli, Lord Eldon, come! Come here! ” That noble¬ 
man hastened to the scene. His pocket flask was 
uncorked in a moment. “What is it? What is it? ” 
he asked. 

No one answered him. Alixe, with her hat fallen 
off, her pale face and swollen eyelids making sad 
havoc with her young beauty, was rubbing St. Au- 
bin’s hands. Lord Eldon forced some brandy down 
his throat and laid him gently prostrate upon the 
terrace. Alixe dropped to the ground, and took the 
strange dark head in her lap. She smoothed the 
crisp black hair, and put Madame’s smelling salts 
to the pinched nostrils. In a moment St. Aubin 
opened his eyes and at once struggled to arise. 

“No, no! You must not try to move, Bruno,” said 
Alixe in a penitent tone. “You must forgive me.” 
Her tears rained down afresh and fell upon his fore¬ 
head. “But you know how I must feel. Virginia 
was my friend, my only friend, and that I should 
lose her now, never, never to see her again.” 

“Alixe! Alixe!” cried Madame sharply. “Have 
you no pity on the man? He must feel it as much 
as you do. There! see what your selfishness has 
done;” for he had again lost consciousness; “you 
know how delicate Bruno has always been-” 

Valery, hearing the stir, had come out on to the 
terrace. Quentin followed, hesitated, and then stood 
still, feeling that this was a domestic matter in which 
it was not his place to meddle. 

“ Hulloa! ” exclaimed Valery bustling up. “ What’s 
the matter? Fainted? Well I’ll be blessed by the 
devil if I ever saw a man faint before.” 

St. Aubin had now opened his eyes again. He 
saw only the face of Alixe bending anxiously above 


142 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


him. He rolled over and clutched her gown with 
his dark fingers. He buried his head in the folds 
of her sombre dress. 

“ Oh, Alixe! ” he cried aloud. “ Can you forgive 
me? Can you ever forgive me? ” 

“Forgive you for what, Bruno? It is you who 
should forgive me.” 

“He has lost his wits.” It was the voice of the 
priest. “Get up, Bruno. Let me take you to the 
chalet. Will you help me, Yalery? ” 

St. Aubin, sobered by the knowledge that he had 
other listeners than Alixe, allowed himself to be 
raised from the ground, and went toward his own 
rooms, leaning on Valery and Father Halle. Alixe 
arose and followed them slowly. 


XIY. 


Quentin could not repress a shudder of disgust at 
the misshapen and loosely hung figure. He turned 
away with a sigh that this should be the clog which 
tied Alixe down and would keep her from happiness 
as long as their lives should last. He was lounging 
aimlessly toward the steps which led down to the 
garden when Madame perceived him. Lord Eldon 
had just left her, and had passed Quentin going into 
the chateau. So soon as Lord Eldon had disaj>- 
peared, Madame beckoned; Quentin went forward 
at Madame’s summons, and joining her, he seated 
himself by her side on the bench beneath the great 
oak tree. 

“I must explain a little to you,” said Madame 
without preface. “ I am sure that I know you well 
enough to speak confidentially to you.” She looked 
affectionately into the eyes of her guest, and ended 
with the words, “ You dear!” 

“ That was an awkward scene and a very painful 
one,” she said. “I hardly know what to make of it. 
I never noticed that Bruno cared particularly for Vir¬ 
ginia Hanielli. She was the friend of Alixe. They 
were inseparable. She would not have left here but 
that she had received a cable saying that her younger 
brother was dying. He was in California. Hying, 
they say, of consumption. Virginia herself did not 


144 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


look any too strong. I first suspected Bruno’s fancy 
for Virginia wlien I found that they had crossed in 
the same steamer to England, or else that they had 
met over there. I remember now, she didn’t go to 
Hamburg. The Daniellis joined the steamer at 
Southampton. They say that Bruno was there, and 
did his best to get them to wait over for the next 
one, but they made all their arrangements very hur¬ 
riedly, as you may imagine—Ada Spencer was the 
first person who mentioned it to me-” 

“ Mentioned what? ” said Quentin shortly. 

“ Why, mentioned the suspicion she had of Bruno 
and Virginia. Bruno hardly seemed to speak to her 
here, Virginia, I mean-” 

“It seems ridiculous,” began Quentin. 

“Ah, my friend, one cannot control one’s heart,” 
said Madame with a pointed look. 

“And why should he?” asked Quentin sharply. 
“ With—with such a wife—a wife whom any man-” 

Madame flushed angrily. She looked at him 
keenly. 

“He, too!” she said to herself. Perhaps of all 
Madame’s ephemeral fancies the one for Quentin had 
been the most lasting. 

“ You must think us a queer household, my 
friend,” said Madame, raising her tone. “But I 
must explain a little. Bruno was the son of my 
sister.” 

“You had another sister, then? ” asked Quentin. 

“Yes,” said Madame hastily. “My sisters were 
both very much older than I.” 

Quentin’s quick mind began to reason. He saw 
that, if Valery had spoken the truth, this would 
make Madame seem as young as she chose to call 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 145 


herself, but he crushed down these thoughts as dis¬ 
loyal and listened as she continued. 

“ I have thought ever since you came that I must 
explain to you why I feel so tenderly toward Bruno. 
I-” 

“ There is no reason why you should explain any¬ 
thing to me, dear Madame,” said Quentin much 
touched, for he saw signs of unaffected agitation 
on the pretty features of his hostess. 

“Yes, but I must. I wish you to know. It all 
happened when I was so young. Almost a little 
girl. I was devoted to the children. We all lived 
in a great old-fashioned house. My father, Colonel 
Gordon, wished us to be at home as much as pos¬ 
sible. Bruno’s father was a Spaniard. He was in 
the diplomatic service. He was away at the time, 
and my sister and her little boy were staying at The 
Beeches.” Madame ceased for a moment. She took 
a filmy handkerchief from the bag at her side, and 
dabbed her face underneath the white veil. 

“Don’t,” said Quentin. “I cannot bear to see 
you! There is no necessity for your telling me 
anything painful.” 

Madame gave a long sigh. There was already al¬ 
leviation in Quentin’s tone. He had not spoken so 
kindly since the evening of his arrival. All emo¬ 
tions as well as all occurrences were subject to Ma¬ 
dame’s desire for appreciation on the part of her 
friends, and she continued. “ One day I was in the 
nursery with the children. I was but little older 
than Bruno.” Quentin looked at Madame and could 
readily believe her statement. “I was not very 
strong then. He was a beautiful lad! ” Madame’s 
face was working convulsively. A tear rolled out of 
10 


146 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 

her eye and clown upon the lace guimpe of her chic 
morning gown. “ I loved to take the child up in my 
arms. I had been forbidden to do so. They said 
that I should drop him, let him fall, that I should 
injure my spine and injure him. I put my arms 
round him, and he laid his head against my breast. 
I started out of the nursery door. I would go into 
my sister’s room and show her how well I could 
carry the child. Just as I got half way along that 
dark hall, the nurse, who hated me, and whom I 
detested, called sharply, 4 Miss Annie! what mischief 
are you up to now?’ I started. I was frightened. 
I relaxed my hold of the little fellow. Oh! I shall 
never forget that moment. We were just at the head 
of a flight of stairs leading down to the kitchen re¬ 
gions. He fell from my arms, and down, down, to 
the very foot of that long flight. The woman’s words 
forced exactly what she would have prevented. You 
can imagine how my father felt, how my sister felt. 
All medical skill was tried, but in vain. Beyond 
saving his life and reason they did nothing. He 
grew to manhood, just what you see him now, but 
thank God! he has never known that it was I 
who-” 

Madame ceased, unable to proceed. She buried 
her face in the folds of her handkerchief, regardless 
of injury to her complexion or newest veiling from 
Yirot. For once, she was natural, and Quentin liked 
her better than he had ever liked her before. Still 
there was one thing that he must say— 

“ Yes, and yet you married your-” 

“I married my niece to him, yes.” (Ah, Madame, 
what a mixture of hypocrisy and honesty you were!) 
"And why not? Bruno was more to me than any- 



THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 147 


tiling in tlie world. My whole life had been given 
up to him. I had rained his. How better could I 
have atoned? I thought to give the lad a fortune— 
but alas!—well—well— His mother treated me to 
the day of her death as if I had been an intentional 
murderess! Oh ! What I have suffered on account 
of that child! And how I love him! Alixe has sup¬ 
planted me with him as she has with—•” she stopped, 
her voice choked with sobs. “I thought she was 
everything to him, but these strange fits of his are 
recurring. I find they always overcome him when 
he is greatly agitated. I have not credited that gos¬ 
sip about Virginia Danielli before, but his words to 
Alixe asking her to forgive him! I am mystified, I 
must confess. I cannot understand it at all. How¬ 
ever, he might love any one so far as Alixe is con¬ 
cerned. She has never been anything more to him 
than— Yes, yes, Valery. They are calling me.” 
Madame rose hastily. “ I will see you after break¬ 
fast, or perhaps you had better come with me, they 
may need some help. What is it? ” she called. She 
ran along the terrace, and disappeared within the 
chalet arch. Quentin followed more slowly. At the 
head of the stairs she stopped and beckoned to her 
guest. “Come,” she said, “come! I need some one 
who is strong. I cannot bear the sight if he suffers 
again.” Quentin ran up the stairs and followed her 
into the room. He had hardly set foot over the 
door-sill when he heard the words, “We need no 
strangers here.” They were Father Halle’s chilling 
tones. “ I begged him—” said Madame, but Quentin 
had turned on his heel and was gone. His swift 
glance round the room showed him St. Aubin lying 
on the lounge, Alixe sitting by his side, her hand 


148 THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


clasped closely within liis own. It had also discov¬ 
ered to him more than perhaps was intended for him 
to see. He stepped across the landing at the priest’s 
inhospitable words, entered his own room and closed 
the door. He sat down and thought long and per¬ 
sistently. The more he jjondered, the more confused 
he became. He had heard so much of St. Aubin’s 
chemicals and experiments. Where were the retorts, 
the colored liquids, the glass jars, used in chemistry? 
The powders, the tubes, and other insignia of the 
science? Instead of any of these, his eyes had fallen 
upon an open box. Here was a mass of machinery 
which the bent of his mind toward mechanism had 
taught him to appreciate and understand at a glance. 
If the Count was making inventions it was not, so far 
as Quentin had discovered, with the aid of chemicals. 
There was a jar standing on the table, and upon it 
the label, “Brown Powder.” As to the box, it was 
a mass of machinery upon which Halle had suddenly 
closed the lid, at the same time saying quickly, “ We 
need no strangers here.” 


XY. 


That Yalery was apt to speak his mind freely, 
Quentin discovered a little later, when he said: 

“I’m a good Catholic, and there is no one whom I 
respect more than his Grace, and yet I must say that 
I can’t see what he has got to say about whom Alixe 
shall or shall not have in her house.” 

“Was there really any reason for it?” asked 
Quentin. 

“He said that he had been unfrocked,” answered 
Yalery, “but I imagine between you and me that 
the Archbishop was a little too severe. Something 
about Peter’s pence, I believe. There had been some 
defalcation. Halle made it good later, but that 
wouldn’t do. As long as he would not admit mak¬ 
ing away with it, he should not have returned it. ” 

“ I wonder why Father Halle should have hidden 
from the Archbishop,” said Quentin, “if the family 
were willing to have him here.” 

“Hum—ha! Did he hide? Looks bad, don’t it? 
Did he? Are you sure of it? ” 

“Quite sure,” said Quentin, “but it is not my 
business to talk about it.” 

“I don’t think Alixe believes the stories,” said 
Yalery, after a pause. “ But Halle was brought up 
in the household. Mamaslia adopted him, the child 
of an old friend, I believe. In fact, Bruno cried for 


150 THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


him, and Brnno liad to have everything he wanted, 
from the top brick of the chimney to Atixe, as you 
see. Alixe thinks the punishment too severe for the 
crime, even if there was any crime, and he, Halle, 
protests to her that he knew nothing about it-” 

“And yet was willing to make that money good?” 

“Yes, that’s where they caught him. Looks bad, 
but I really can’t believe Bob guilty. Alixe and 
Bruno and Bob played together as children. It’s 
rather a curious mixture. Mamasha is a good Cath¬ 
olic, and would like to obey the Archbishop, but I 
believe that next to her own soul, she loves Bruno, 
and if she were to put Halle out of the house, Bruno 
would never forgive her. There are wheels within 
wheels, as you will find, Mr. Quentin, if you stay 
long enough at l’Abbaye de Bref.” 

“He seems still to wear the priest’s robe,” said 
Quentin. 

“Propriety forbids that he should discard it,” an¬ 
swered Yalery, with a laugh. “I don’t suppose he’s 
got anything under it. Poor devil! ” 

There had been so much and so varied excitement 
during the short time of Quentin’s stay, that he re¬ 
joiced at the now prevailing quiet which the exodus 
of the many guests had brought in its train. There 
were remaining now only Madame Petrofsky, Alixe, 
Gartha, Mademoiselle, and the Baroness, while in 
the list of the stern sex he could discover no other 
names than those of Lord Eldon, Yalery, the Count, 
Father Halle, and Quentin himself. A household of 
ten persons is not usually considered a very small 
one, but the great house party which Madame had 
been entertaining for some weeks past, and which, 
while it was ever changing in its personal units, was 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 151 


usually full as to numbers, made the great chateau 
seem, by contrast, almost empty. 

The breakfasting and dining al fresco were re¬ 
sumed at Lord Eldon’s desire, but that seemed to be 
the only change worth noting. 

Quentin would not listen to Madame’s persistent 
request that he should remove his belongings to the 
chateau. He felt a pride in sticking to his post, in 
not being frightened away by a few draughts of wind 
which he could explain, and the rappings and open¬ 
ings of doors for which he could not so readily ac¬ 
count, and he begged his hostess to allow him to 
remain where he at first had been installed, until he 
finally took his departure. 

The time passed quietly. Billiards with Yalery in 
the morning, drives or walks with Madame when she 
was not driving or walking with Lord Eldon, riding 
with Yalery and Gartha all about the roads of the 
valley or the paths among the hills. Alixe had not 
appeared since he had seen her sitting by St. Aubin’s 
side in the chalet room, and St. Aubin himself had 
not been seen again, the priest being in constant at¬ 
tendance upon him. 

Toward the evening of the fourth day, Lord Eldon 
came to Quentin as he was smoking his cigar in the 
ruins. 

“Mr. Quentin,” he said, “I wish you to do me a 
favor.” He spoke with brisk confidence. The peer 
was not accustomed to being refused a request. 

“What is it?” said Quentin good-naturedly. He 
had taken a fancy to this rosy little gentleman with 
a face like a winter apple, and he thought that he 
saw in him a valuable factor in solving a problem 
whose complications somewhat annoyed him. 


152 THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“I am very anxious,” said Lord Eldon, “to sleep 
for just one night in your rooms. I have never in 
my life seen or heard a ghostly visitant. I have 
endeavored to do so time out of mind. I always take 
the side against the possibility of such an occurrence, 
although we have a well-authenticated ghost at Eldon 
Towers, but they never come within eyesight so far 
as I am concerned. Now, I am going to ask you, 
notwithstanding what St. Aubin said yesterday, to 
let me spend the night in your rooms.” 

“I have not the most remote objection,” said 
Quentin, “ only you must not let the Count find you 
out. You are a much older friend here than I am, 
but-” 

“ We cannot exchange rooms very well, ” said Lord 
Eldon, “ unless you openly agree to it, and that you 
seem determined not to do.” 

“No,” said Quentin, “I am not to be frightened 
away, but I am willing, if you prefer-” 

“ Now, I have my own theory about these manifes¬ 
tations,” interrupted Lord Eldon, “and I want to 
prove it without delay. I am of the opinion that 
we two shall see whatever one alone would see, also 
that I shall hear whatever you hear when I am not 
with you.” 

“Very well,” said Quentin. “But how do you 
purpose managing it? ” 

“Why, this way.” Lord Eldon sat down on a 
great stone. “ Give me a light, will you? ” As Lord 
Eldon puffed he unfolded his plans. “After every 
one is asleep, I shall leave the chateau, go down the 
steps into the flower garden, between the terrace and 
the Abbey-” 

“ Why? ” asked Quentin. 


THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 153 

Lord Eldon puffed slowly. Tlien he took his cigar 
from between his lips and laughed. 

“I see that you are no conspirator,” he said. “I 
take that way simply because the soft earth paths 
give forth no sound. I could not possibly get over 
there from the chateau without my footsteps being 
heard on the gravel. I shall walk along to where 
the nuns’ steps are built into the outer wall.” 

“I don’t think I know the place,” said Quentin. 

" There is plenty to see in this old enclosure,” com¬ 
mented Lord Eldon. “ Well, when I get there I shall 
turn to come back, and will mount those far steps 
which are at the very end of the terrace.” 

“ I must go there some time,” said Quentin, remem¬ 
bering that Alixe and Gartha had appeared from that 
direction on the first evening of his arrival. 

"Yes, but not to-night. They will suspect some¬ 
thing. You can’t imagine how suspicious those two 
men are,” and Lord Eldon jerked his head in the 
direction of the chalet. " When I get to the top of 
the steps, I shall remove my bedroom slippers, which 
I shall wear for this occasion only, and proceed the 
rest of the way in stockinged feet.” 

" You are more anxious than most persons to see 
something supernatural,” said Quentin, looking round 
at Lord Eldon and smiling at his anxiety to make 
himself uncomfortable. 

"There, you know,” proceeded Lord Eldon, "I 
strike the terrace, but it is not gravelled very weil 
just at the end, so I shall make no noise, and in a 
few moments I shall come to the little board walk 
under the chalet windows.” 

“Just under the Count’s rooms,” said Quentin. 

“Yes, but the balcony is overhead. From that 


154 THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


moment on, I shall be concealed. Then up the chalet 
stairs in a jiffy, and so into the haunted chamber. 
Now, isn’t that a fine plan? Your rooms are on the 
right of the stairs, I believe. I wonder why they 
never put me there? ” 

“ Perhaps, as happened this time, the rooms were 
always full,” commented Quentin. 

“The lantern is lighted, I suppose?” questioned 
Lord Eldon. 

“Yes, usually,” said Quentin, “though it did go 
out the other night, the night of my adventure.” 

“ Ghost blew it out, I suppose,” said the peer, smil¬ 
ing broadly. “ Now you leave your door unlocked, 
do you hear? I shall go to bed early and get some 
rest, and when I am least expected I shall be on hand. 
When your door opens mysteriously, at the wee short 
hours ayont the twal, don’t be frightened out of your 
wits; it will be only me.” Lord Eldon’s grammar, 
like that of many an English gentleman, left some¬ 
thing to be desired, but lapses in grammar do not 
necessarily argue for lapses in courage. Quentin 
agreed to this plan quite readily. 


xvx 


To his surprise, when he went to dinner at the ring¬ 
ing of the Abbey bell, he saw that Alixe had taken 
her place at the end of the contracted table. She 
spoke only to Gartha and ate little. When they had 
assembled in the salon after dinner, he saw her tall 
figure seated within the embrasure of a distant win¬ 
dow. 

As Quentin entered the room there was a crash of 
music. Mademoiselle and the Baroness, both accom¬ 
plished musicians, were filling the room with the 
liglit-heartedness of the soul of Brahms as exemplified 
in some of his gayest waltzes. The Baroness was at 
the grand piano, Mademoiselle accompanying her at 
the little upright. Quentin loved music and listened 
delightedly. He seated himself in a deep armchair. 
There were lights at the piano only, the rest of the 
room being in semi-darkness. He glanced often to¬ 
ward the tall figure silhouetted against the evening 
sky. He did not approach her then. She seemed to 
withdraw from every one, and he was not so bold as 
to break in upon her solitude. 

When Mademoiselle and the Baroness had played 
until Madame had become a little impatent, she re¬ 
placed them as an entertainer of the small company. 
She gave, to Father Halle’s accompaniment, some ex¬ 
ceedingly florid vocalization in bravura style. St. 


156 THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


Aubin in Iris turn sang some Spanish songs in a sin¬ 
gularly sweet tenor voice, which caused' Quentin to 
stare at him in amazement, and Valery roared out a 
succession of hunting songs and some African ballads 
until he was red in the face. He sang “ The Poacher,” 
“Drink, Puppy, Drink,” and “Im Tiefen Keller,” 
with a ring and verve that were inspiriting. The one 
discordant note was an English song by the Baroness, 
which she called “The Loosed Cort.” The title in 
this instance was prophetic, as the singer ended her 
song in a key a half-tone lower than that in which 
she had begun. 

“Beally, we make excellent music, do we not? ” ex¬ 
claimed Madame. “We must give a concert. We 
can have a charity performance for the hospital over 
in the village of Moncousis. Mr. Quentin, you sing, 
I know. Come and try something, anything. Bobert 
Halle can play all music at sight.” 

But Quentin could not sing with that lonely figure 
in view. He arose, saying, “ I am not in voice this 
evening, Madame.” He walked slowly over toward 
the window. He sang well, and the idea of singing 
to the priest’s accompaniment was not encouraging to 
him. Halle played the piano, as most players of the 
organ do, with a heaviness of touch, which was per¬ 
haps made up for, in a measure, by his certainty and 
method. 

As Quentin approached the window, the tall figure 
sitting there moved slightly, and withdrew her trail¬ 
ing robe. He placed himself by her side, and looked 
abroad upon the wonderful night. 

Alixe was dressed in some soft black material whose 
folds clung about her as she moved. She had dis¬ 
carded her jewels, all but the silver chain with its 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 157 


great cross of amethysts. Quentin saw that it hung 
downward, hidden within the folds of her dress. He 
sat silent, regarding the musicians. He saw that 
Madame cast an occasional glance toward where he 
sat by the side of Alixe. He saw, too, that Halle, as 
he thumped out his accompaniment, often turned 
quickly and looked over his shoulder through the 
open door at his back, across the terrace, to the gate 
beyond. 

“ Do you feel cold, Robert? ” asked Madame kindly. 

“ A little chilly now and then. It is nothing. Is 
the gate open? ” 

“ The gate is never open, Robert; that you know 
well: we are perfectly enclosed at the Abbey; but 
why? ” laughing. “Do you feel colder with the door 
in the wall open when all the windows and doors are 
flung wide, as you see? ” 

“ Perhaps if the great doors were closed, there would 
not be as much draught, ” said the priest. But Ma¬ 
dame gave no order this mild evening to shut out the 
air. 

She glanced once or or twice across the great ex¬ 
panse of the interior toward the two figures in the 
window. Then she walked over to where they sat, 
silent. Not a word had been spoken between them 
since Quentin had seated himself. 

“Alixe,” said Madame, “why can’t you play my 
accompaniments? You know how Robert Halle ac¬ 
companies. He thumps ‘ In Deinem- Blauen Augen ’ 
as if he were playing the f Stabat Mater. ’ My voice 
is completely lost.” 

“ Do not ask me to play to-night,” said Alixe. 

“What nonsense!” ejaculated Madame. “There 
is no reason why you should not play to please me. 


158 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


We cannot mourn forever. Don’t you know, Alixe, 
that there is such a thing as being selfish in your 
grief? ” 

“ Yes,” answered Alixe wearily. “ I know there is. 
I am very selfish, that I know well, but oh, Mama- 
slia! Let me be selfish for a little while longer.” 

Madame gave Quentin a glance eloquent of disap¬ 
proval, and clicked back to the piano. 

Quentin had heard the voice of Alixe only when 
she had answered Madame. She had not spoken to 
him. Nor did she speak to him now. 

They sat, still, silent, as two ghosts. It was to 
Quentin simply a companionship, which was sweeter 
than the talk of crowds. 

Suddenly the priest struck the opening chords of 
the mad song from Lucia. So soon as the notes fell 
upon her ear, Alixe arose hastily. She drew her 
breath sharply. “ Oh, do not sing that! ” she ex¬ 
claimed. 

“Absurd! Alixe,” answered Madame sharply. 
“ Are we never to return to our own ways just be¬ 
cause-” 

Alixe stood partly in the ray of the moon, partly in 
shadow. 

“Robert Halle,” she said, in a tone of command 
which Quentin had never heard from her before, “ you 
shall not play that song. Stop! I order you. Any¬ 
thing—anything else. I will not have it. It was the 

last song that Virginia-” Her voice broke and 

she sat down hurriedly. 

Halle without a word took the sheet of music from 
the rack, and replaced it by another. 

“I had better go away,” said Alixe. Quentin did 
not feel that she was speaking to him. It rather 



THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 159 


seemed as if she were in a reverie. “ I am only a 
spoil-sport.” As she spoke, she pushed the low 
panelled seat outward and the long window swung 
over the terrace. Quentin arose hastily. He fol¬ 
lowed, and passed her by, perceiving where her path 
lay. 


XYII. 


He ran down the stairs ahead of her, which was a 
fortunate move on his part, for in the darkness her 
foot caught in an encroaching vine. He heard her 
stumble, and before she should prevent, she'had 
fallen against him. He turned quickly, and caught 
her in his arms. She drew back, so soon as she felt 
the necessary resistance which his steadfast form 
gave her, and stood upright. She gave a swift, sharp 
sigh, and stood looking at him for a moment from 
wide-open eyes, as if some secret thing had suddenly 
been revealed to her. He saw but a glance. It was 
to him but the look that perhaps a friendless child 
might give to a kindly disposed elder person, but it 
comforted Quentin in the many dark days that fol¬ 
lowed. 

They paced down toward the abbey. Quentin 
talked hurriedly of indifferent things. Alixe was 
silent. He did not know if she listened or no. As 
they entered beneath the arch which opened the way 
to the ruin, she stopped and faced him. 

“ Mr. Quentin,” she said, “ I ought to ask your par¬ 
don for making Mamasha’s guests so uncomfortable. 
First my husband sends half of them off in a hurried 
flight because of his poor harmless chemicals, and 
then I annoy the rest of you because I cannot contain 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 161 


my feelings. It—it is hard to learn to control one’s 
feelings, I find—to learn to forget—all at once.” 

They paced along the interior of the ruin, some¬ 
times in deep shadow. The leaves which showed 
above the top of the abbey wall, cast shadows across 
her fair face. She walked the length of the enclosure 
and seated herself upon a low, bent limb. It was 
where Quentin remembered to have seen the gay bevy 
on that first day at afternoon tea. Ho\v different 
now! There were no filmy lawns and gay colors, no 
bright and saucy voices sending badinage from one 
corner to the other. There was little light. The 
angles of the building were dark and ghostly. Quen¬ 
tin and Alixe were the only beings who occupied the 
lonely enclosure. She was robed in deepest black; 
the waist of the gown came high and covered her 
throat. Her arms were encased in long sleeves. The 
only things about her that sent out a spark of light 
were the amethyst cross hanging at her side from its 
string of beads, and the glint of her fair hair with the 
silver combs shining palely in the moonlight. 

“I should like to talk to you a little, if I may.” 
She looked at him inquiringly, almost pathetically. 
It seemed as if she would say, “ If I may not talk to 
you, where can I turn? ” Quentin said nothing. She 
waiting for answer, saw permission in his eyes. 

“The subject is tabooed within the chateau,” she 
began. “It is of Virginia Danielli that I would 
speak. Mamasha says that it makes me cry and look 
ugly, and indeed, she is right, so it does. No, do not 
pay me a compliment, I beg of you. I know just how 
it makes me look when I weep. It makes me really 
ill. It convulses my whole being. I cry very sel¬ 
dom. I have wept like this but two or three times in 
11 


1G2 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 

my whole life. Once when the dear old general died. 

Ah! Had he but lived! The other times were-” 

She ceased. 

Quentin did not ask when those times had been. 
He thought that he could imagine. 

“For some reason,” continued Alixe, "it makes my 
husband extremely agitated when I mention my friend 
Virginia, and it is not to be wondered at. She was 
here full of life and spirits so short a time ago! And 
I find that Robert Halle feels almost as strongly about 
it. Mamasha does not like it. She loves all gay and 
bright things—Mamasha—” a sigh—"and I must 
keep silent before her. I cannot cloud Gartha’s life 
with my sorrow. We have kept the fact from her. 

And so-” She looked up at him questioningly. 

“May I tell you about Virginia? ” 

Quentin did not speak. He felt that words were 
superfluous. He stretched out his hand and took 
hers within his strong grasp. Alixe gave his a 
friendly pressure and then withdrew her own, and 
laid it by its fellow upon her sombre-hued knee. 

“As a little child my life was particularly lonely,” 
she began. “ I need not go into the reasons. (No, 
thought Quentin, you need not, but I am beginning 
to understand those reasons.) But that it was so, 
is an unpleasant fact. Then, as an older girl, I was 
obliged to do many things which were especially re¬ 
pugnant to me.” Quentin remembered Miss Spen¬ 
cer’s words about "those girls being hawked about 
to half the capitals of Europe.” 

“Finally, in some of our wanderings, I met this 
young girl Virginia. She was but a little older than 
I. I was first attracted by her merry laugh, truly 
the merriest laugh that ever I heard. It was contar 




THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 163 

gious. There was something within me that needed 
and responded to just such a cheerful even nature. 
She was always laughing, my Yirginia. The first 
thing in the morning you heard her sweet note; it was 
like the note of a bird. How often have I heard it 
here in this very spot, where we are sitting—” she 
broke off with a sad little laugh; “but I don’t know 
why I should, after all, trouble you with all this, Mr. 
Quentin. Like the needy knife grinder, I have no 
story to tell. She was just sweet and lovely, and my 

friend, my friend! She was here-” Alixe paused 

and looked around at the darkened corners of the 
walls of stone. “ Can it be possible that she was here 
only three weeks ago? Now they tell me that she is 
gone; that I shall never see her more. How can I 
believe it? How can I? Yirginia dead! Yirginia 
dead!” She paused 'for a few moments. Quentin 
saw that her lips were moving, although no sound 
came from them; then in the stillness he heard the 
dropping of a tear, then another. Alixe put her hand 
to her face and brushed the tears away as a little child 
might have done. 

“It is nothing,” she said. “It has grown to be a 
habit. Do not mind. How can I tell you how lovely 
she was? No words of mine could make you under¬ 
stand it.” She ceased. There was dead silence 
within the cloistered ruin. Quentin did not seek to 
break the spell. 

“ You know, Mr. Quentin, that there are some per¬ 
sons with whom one cannot associate the thought of 
death. Yirginia was one of those. I should never 
have imagined her dead. I could not, but for those 
awful visions that pursue me at night. Connecting 
Yirginia with death seems to me absurd, incongruous. 


164 THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


Yet—yet—she comes to me; she comes to me at 
night, always begging Bru—that is, my husband—to 
help her. It is strange, that hallucination, and I 
know it. She does not come asking aid of me. She 
does not laugh any more, she does not smile, she only 
raises appealing hands, and begs and prays to be saved 
from that cold, dark death.” Still Quentin did not 
speak; he felt that this was simply the outpouring of 
a heartbroken soul, and that he, as himself, played 
little part in the matter. He was simply a receptacle, 
little better than the empty air, but he was a listener, 
and that is all that certain bereft creatures desire: 
some one, any one who will listen. 

Alixe sat looking up at the shifting clouds which 
crossed and hid the moon at times, at others parted 
to allow it to shine brightly forth. Sometimes the 
light flooded her face. It was during one of these 
moments that Quentin, still silent, still gazing upon 
her, saw that her face assumed a rapt expression, and 
that she began to speak, to whisper, her voice hardly 
making itself heard above the gentle rustle of the 
leaves of the old tree upon whose limb she was sit¬ 
ting. The scene in the glade came back to him. 
“The man is nothing to me,” she had said. And 
then again, “I shall probably see little of him.” 
Could that have been but a few days ago? Less than 
a week? How much had come and gone since then! 
Her tears were falling more slowly now. She with-, 
drew her eyes and rested her gaze on Quentin’s. 

“ You are strong, ” she said. “ You are quiet. You 
give me peace.” 

Quentin reached over and took her slim hands 
again in his. He pressed them in his strong ones. 
Then he released them. It was not much. It was to 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 165 


last for a lifetime, for lie knew now that this was to 
be the thing of a lifetime with him. 

“ Thank you,” said Alixe. “I should think that I 
had cried away all my tears. Tears for Virginia. 
Had you only seen her, Mr. Quentin, had you only 
known her, you would understand. You have noticed 
that picture above the grand piano. The picture of 
Sa-nta Barbara. That is Virginia to the life. Only she 
was more simple, not so stilted as that lovely saint; 
But she wore her hair just as that is worn. She was 
always laughing at me for my untidy ness. She will 
never laugh at me, or with me, again.” A silence for 
a time during which there were strange rustlings 
among the branches, and the sound of the dropping 
to earth of bits of crumbling stone, the inevitable 
wearing away of that ancient pile which must con¬ 
tinue to crumble until it had vanished from human 
ken. 

“ I saw her again last night, Mr. Quentin. I have 
not told the others, no one but Bru—my husband. 
They laugh at my fancies. They say that I am al¬ 
ways full of fancies. She was with me the whole 
night through. Sometimes she walked with me, as 
she used to do, her pretty hands in mine—she had 
such pretty hands! such little hands! they felt so lost 
in my great paw.” 

Quentin glanced at the long, slim hands lying in her 
lap. There was no plump prettiness about them, but 
they were handsome, refined hands, strong in char¬ 
acter. “ Sometimes she was hanging on my arm, as 
in the old days, only three weeks ago, Mr. Quentin, 
think of it! Only three weeks ago! Looking up in 
my face, but never laughing. She never laughs any 
more and her nature was always so joyous! Virginia 


166 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


was the embodiment of joy. She was forever laugh¬ 
ing. Then, again, I saw her sinking down, sinking 
down in the dark waves, in the wide, black sea. She 
was stretching out her arms, begging, praying to be 
saved, but not to me. That was so strange. Not to 
me, but to—to my husband, of all persons! She did 
not care for him nor he for her. I was her friend. 
He often asked me when she was going away, as if he 
did not wish her at the Abbey. I remember one very 
strange thing. On the day when I told Count St. 
Aubin that Virginia must sail in the next steamer, that 
they had cabled her to do so, he behaved very unac¬ 
countably. I have often wondered if he could have 
had some premonition as to her coming fate. He 
asked me why she could not remain over until the fol¬ 
lowing week. He was himself starting at once for 
Hamburg to take that very ship for Southampton. 
It seems that Madame Danielli’s man of business in 
London had cabled her the news of her son’s critical 
condition. There were many persons going to Amer¬ 
ica at that time, and it was the only steamer in which 
he could get passage for them. I remember my hus¬ 
band asking why they could not sail later, or earlier, 
even. I have never been able to understand this, but 
he knew how I loved Virginia, and if he had a pre¬ 
monition, as I sometimes think, he was perhaps try¬ 
ing to save me from this grief. Virginia was my one 
friend. It is a great thing to have one friend, Mr. 
Quentin.” 

Quentin made no answer. He did not offer her his 
friendship. He had said all that he meant to say. 
If she did not feel that he was her friend for all time, 
no words of his could persuade her of the fact. 

They sat on the branch of the old tree for a space. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 167 


Tlie sobs of Alixe grew less frequent; tliere was oc¬ 
casionally a long-drawn catching of the breath, but 
she said no more. Suddenly the silence was broken 
by the slight stumble of a foot and a smothered ex¬ 
clamation. Quentin caught sight of the red spark of 
a cigar at the old arched entrance to the ruin. 


XYIII. 


“ Alixe,” called a voice. “ Alixe, where are you? ” 

It was St. Aubin’s voice. 

“Here, Bruno,” she answered. “I am with Mr. 
Quentin.” 

Quentin half arose. 

“Do not get up,” she said. “Bruno will find us.” 

She made no effort to rise, nor did she move fur¬ 
ther away from Quentin, and he was obliged to admit 
that she had been no nearer to him than convention¬ 
ality allowed. Strange to say, he experienced a slight 
feeling of irritation when she remained seated. There 
was no secret between them, except perhaps that faint 
pressure of her hands, and doubtless she would 
frankly allude to it before this creature to whom she 
was chained, and give Quentin an excellent oppor¬ 
tunity for mortification. 

“ Come here,” she called. “ It is lovely here in the 
abbey.” She moved a little nearer Quentin, to give 
St. Aubin a place to seat himself should he be so 
minded. 

St. Aubin came near, and glanced at them care¬ 
lessly. He was evidently much preoccupied. 

“ Ghostly old ruin! ” he said, as he stumbled nearer 
his wife. “ How can you sit here a minute longer 
than you have to? Do you know, Quentin, that you 
are close to the oubliette where they used to confine 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 169 


the nuns? That was when they did something worse 
than usual; and the wall just behind you, that double 
shell, where some of the stones have fallen down, is 
the spot where two especially obstinate ones were im¬ 
mured. I always expect to see their ghosts when I 
am here after dark, which, however, is not often, I can 
assure you.” 

“ You will have little to dread if you see no other 
ghosts than those, Bruno,” said Alixe, rising and lay¬ 
ing her hand on his shoulder. 

St. Aubin started perceptibly. 

“ What is it, Bruno? Are you getting nervous, too? 
How you tremble.” 

"It is nothing,” said St. Aubin, shaking off her 
hand. "You are always fancying something,” he 
added. There was the sound of voices growing near. 

“ There they come,” said St. Aubin. “ Mamasha is 
always uneasy for fear she lost her latest. Here we 
are, Mamasha.” 

As St. Aubin spoke, several figures entered the ruin, 
and, crossing the open space, joined those standing 
there. Madame began to interrogate Quentin as to 
how long he had been in the abbey church, if he did 
not care for music, if he did not feel the chill of the 
night air, when St. Aubin had joined them, and if he 
did not find it terribly eerie out here in the ghostiy 
old ruins. 

Quentin warded off these inquiries with forced 
laughter. It deceived Madame, however, who looked 
at him with scrutiny. It seemed to her that senti¬ 
ment and he must now be strangers. While Madame 
was plying him with her questions, St. Aubin had laid 
his hand on the arm of Alixe, and had drawn her 
along the interior of the abbey to the further doorway. 


170 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


Here a grass-grown terrace above the tops of tlie an¬ 
cient dungeons made a footway broad enough for two 
persons to walk abreast. 

“I wish to speak with you, Alixe,” St. Aubin had 
said in passing through the opening. 

“Yes, Bruno,” she answered gently. She followed 
his lead, and together they began to pace up and down 
outside the walls. Here they were screened from the 
sight of those within the ruin. They were silent for 
a while. Alixe, forgetful even that Bruno had said 
that he had something to say to her, forgetful of all 
but her own grief, asked no question as she walked 
beside him. 

“I wish to ask you a favor, Alixe,” said St. Aubin. 

She was looking abroad upon the misty fields sil¬ 
vered by the moonlight, and did not answer. 

“Alixe!” She started at the somewhat impatient 
tone. 

“Yes, Bruno,” she said. 

“I—I wish to ask you something,” again repeated 
St. Aubin. He stopped in his walk, hesitated, and 
was silent. 

Alixe had also stopped. “Well, Bruno,” she said 
again, “what is it? ” 

St. Aubin had turned toward the crumbling wall 
and stood there pulling, almost unconsciously, at a 
dead vine, which, loosening in his hand, scattered its 
withered leaves upon the ground. 

“Do not do that,” said Alixe. “Do not! ” 

He, unheeding, with a final great rip and jerk, tore 
the vine from its holding. 

“ That is the vine that we planted together last year 
—Virginia and I. I hoped that it might have lived.” 

“It is dead,” said St. Aubin, stolidly. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 171 


"Yes, I feared that it was dead yesterday, but I 
meant to try to restore it. I thought that with care I 
might. There was perhaps some little spark of life 
remaining- 

St. Aubin threw the trailing spray upon the ground. 

“ You can never make it live again, ” he said. “ You 
cannot bring the dead back to life. That is an old 
axiom.” 

Alixe shook her head slowly and sighed. 

“I fear not,” she said. "Not any more than my 
love can bring her back to life—Virginia! ” 

“Alixe,” said St. Aubin impatiently, “how long 
will you continue to harp on that one string? I for 
one am tired of it.” 

“ Harp on one string? You forget yourself, Bruno. 
Harp on one string? I have not troubled you with 
my grief! The news is not so old to me that the ex¬ 
pression of my sorrow can be called harping. Do 
you not think that I am tired of it, too? Oh, so tired 
of it! And I must be tired of this dreadful fact for 
all the years to come. Perhaps when I have mourned 
Virginia for ten or twenty years, you may say-” 

"Well, let me hear no more of it, Alixe. I am 
weary of it. You annoy every one. Grief for the 

dead-” St. Aubin stopped, tie shuddered. " It 

is chilly out here,” he said. “I hate the place. 
Grief for the dead cannot bring them back.” Alixe 
renewed her pacing. St. Aubin kept step beside her. 

“ There is just one thing that makes it the more 
bitter, Bruno. I did not go with Virginia to the 
steamer. She begged me to, and I refused. That is 
the cause of my remorse. Did you ever feel remorse, 
Bruno? ” 

Alixe did not say, "You would not allow it,” or 


172 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“You objected so strenuously that I gave up my will 
to yours,” but St. Aubin answered sneeringly: 

“ And you are now trying to put the burden of that 
also on me? ” 

“Also, Bruno! What do you mean? What else 
have I ever tried to place to your blame? What have 
I-” 

“ No, no! ” said St. Aubin hastily. “ I do not mean 
that, Alixe, but it seems like a reproach to me. 
Mamasha did not wish you to go, Gartha was ailing. 
They were here alone, and I thought that you had 
worn yourself out enough for the Daniellis—she 

usurped my place, Virginia Danielli—she-” 

“ She took no place but her own, ” said Alixe. “ She 
was the first with me and ever will be. I accepted 
your reasons,” she added sadly, “but, oh, remorse is 
a dreadful thing! To feel that I refused the last re¬ 
quest which she made of me; that I might have gone 
with her; that I might have seen the last wave of her 

hand—the last smile on her lips—the last-” 

“ Cease! ” St. Aubin shouted in a voice of thunder, 
and then perceiving the look of astonishment on her 
face: “Pardon me,” he said, in a softer tone, “but I 
can bear no more. The Daniellis were my friends, 
too, Alixe. It was a great shock to me] as well. I 
would have prevented their going in that steamer if 

I could have done so-” 

“ Poor Bruno,” said she apologetically. “I am, as 
Mamasha says, a very selfish person.” Alixe drew a 
long sigh. “ You could not have known that any ac¬ 
cident would happen to that steamer. Poor Bruno! ” 
She laid her hand upon his shoulder and looked down 
into his face. “You must forgive me. You will, 
Bruno? You will? ” 



THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 173 


St. Aubin, finding her in so soft a mood toward 
him, broke in suddenly. 

“I have something to ask of you.” 

“Iam only waiting,” answered Alixe with spirit¬ 
less voice. “What is it? My grief has made me 
thoughtless. Have I refused you anything that you 
have asked for? ” 

St. Aubin thought of the late sale of two valuable 
pieces of property, and answered with lowered head 
and faint voice: “ No. But this is something that I 

have never asked before. ” 

“Anything! anything that I can do for you; you 
know very well that you have only to-” 

“I should like you,” said St. Aubin, speaking very 
fast, and in an almost inaudible tone of voice, “ to let 
me change my rooms in the chalet and come over to 
the large house.” 

“Bruno!” exclaimed Alixe in a low voice, “have 
you seen anything, really?” • 

“Nonsense!” said St. Aubin. “I wish to come 
over-” 

“You will leave the chemicals behind, I suppose,” 
said Alixe, with the ghost of a smile. 

“ I wish to come over-” 

“And why not? I am sure you are as free of the 
Abbey as I am myself. The place is yours as much 
as mine. I have always told you that.” 

“You do not understand me, Alixe.” 

“ Oh, yes! Yes, I do. You wish to change your 
room and come over to the chateau. Will Robert 
change too? I suppose you will still keep the labo¬ 
ratory-” 

“ Halle can go to the devil! ” burst out St. Aubin in 
a violent tone, and then: “Excuse me, Alixe, but 




174 THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 

yon wilfully misunderstand me. Halle-may go where 

he pleases, but-” 

“ Have you had a quarrel, then? ” 

“ I am not talking of Halle. It is of myself I am 
speaking. I wish to come to the chateau and take 
the place that is mine by right.” 

St. Aubin stretched himself to the greatest height 
that nature allowed and looked upward into the eyes 
of his wife. 

“Take the place?” Alixe gazed at the misshapen 
creature before her. “I hardly understand you. 
Are not the servants respectful? Have you any com¬ 
plaint to make? I seldom give orders, as you know, 
Bruno, but if you will tell Mamaslia, she, as you 

know, manages all, she will-” 

“You purposely misunderstand me,” said St. Au¬ 
bin in a harsh voice. “ Look me in the face if you 
please. You may be the Duchesse di Brazzia, your 
foolish mother saw fit that you should keep that title 
—but you are my wife, I am your husband. I have 

been your husband in name for eighteen months-” 

He broke off and gazed searchingly in her face. “ I 
mean to come where you are, live where you do—I 
mean-” 

“My rooms are fitted for me only,” said Alixe 
coldly. She drew away from him. “ The Abbess’s 
chamber was never intended for more than one per¬ 
son. Besides, I was promised ”—she shrank further 
away—“ I was assured by my mother that it was my 
fortune that you wanted, to continue your inventions; 
that I had so much that I ought to share it with you; 
that you could not accept it unless I became your 
wife, but that all was to be as before. It was a very 
matter-of-fact bargain. Why, we were playmates, 


THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 175 


Bruno”—Alixe’s voice was shaking—'“playmates in 
the old days. You are to me like a brother.” She 
stopped, choked; then resumed hurriedly: “Be¬ 
sides, Bruno, look at me. I am living in another 
world. The ghost of Virginia walks beside me the 
whole night through—the whole night through! She 
weeps and winds her hands about my arm, and she 
calls upon you to save her—to save her from those 
black waves. Why should she call upon you, Bruno, 
upon you? ” 

At these apparently innocent words, St. Aubin 
stretched his long arms upward, his passion turned 
all at once to rage. 

“ You devil! ” he shouted. 

He seized the girl by the shoulders and shook her 
in his frenzy with the strength of a being who par¬ 
takes somewhat of the nature of a dwarf. 

“ You devil! ” he shouted again. “ You beautiful, 
innocent devil! ” he screamed hoarsely. “ What do 
you know? What do you suspect? ” At these des¬ 
perate words— 

“What? What is it?” called Madame’s voice. 
“Are you hurt, Bruno? Are you ill? ” 

There were sounds of running feet. They found 
Alixe standing as if turned to stone. St. Aubin had 
fallen at her feet. He was clutching at the grass and 
trembling as if in an ague, whether ill from some sud¬ 
den sickness, or ill from anger, or from both, Madame 
could not determine. She had had long experience 
of Bruno’s temper. 

Alixe did not stoop to raise him, nor did she wait 
to see what the outcome might be. With no further 
look at his grovelling figure, she passed in through 
the doorway, across the open space of the ruin, and 


176 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


out again beneath the curves of the arch, deaf to the 
nervous cries of Madame or the loud orders from 
Valery. She went with swift steps up the stone 
stairs, across the strip of terrace and through the 
salon, empty now, though still glittering with its 
many brilliant lights. She mounted the circular 
stair which led to the Abbess’s chamber, and enter¬ 
ing there, she closed and bolted the iron door of her 
refuge, remnant of a century long dead, when a 
woman’s chamber needed to be her castle, and thus 
she shut herself away from the strife of her world, 
as the lady abbesses had often done in the olden 
time. 

Alixe walked the floor for many hours that night. 
Virginia appeared to her no more. That sad pleas¬ 
ure was ended. Suddenly Alixe felt that she was 
warring with a much greater trouble—a living trouble. 
She found herself face to face with a new difficulty. 
Something had come to her which she had never ex¬ 
pected or dreamed of. Why she should have hoped 
for immunity from the common lot of women, it is 
impossible to say. She found suddenly that she was 
to be free no more than the rest of womankind. She 
paced the room the long night through. When the 
early dawn began to show itself upon the opposite 
hill, she threw herself into the ancient prie-dieu which 
had served the mother abbesses for ages, and there 
she poured out her soul. She was not of the church 
to which those good women had belonged, but she 
was suffering as they may have suffered in days long 
dead. Common sisterhood made them one. She 
prayed, her face in her hands, the tears streaming 
through her fingers. When her broken words ceased, 
she still knelt there, more at peace than she had been 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 177 


since tlie news of Virginia came to lier, wondering 
what she should do. 

Quentin sat smoking within the seclusion of the 
ruins for a long time after the others had left. The 
wandering breezes of night made their presence known 
by an occasional rustle overhead among the leaves, 
which rose above the walls of the Abbey and so caught 
the movements of the night air, but no spirit came to 
disturb his reflections. He sat there in a dream, a 
maze. He had awakened. He felt as if he had not 
lived before, and yet such living was more painful 
than the moribund state from which this new spirit 
of life had called him. He pondered upon one sub¬ 
ject only, and was lost in that. His thoughts were 
futile and worse than useless, but they would not 
down. So there were skeletons in this household, of 
all households that he had ever known the most peace¬ 
ful in appearance. Its name signified a quiet retreat, 
which called up memories of past holiness and calm. 
All had seemed as still as the surface of a pool en¬ 
closed between high hills, a spot which no harsh 
wind could ever search out to destroy its peace; and 
now he found that that smiling surface hid a boiling 
cauldron which might bubble and foam into danger¬ 
ous billows at any moment. In this sunny paradise, 
then, serpents lurked in shadowy corners, there was a 
worm gnawing at the heart of every fair flower. Here 
ghosts walked not by night only, but stalked boldly 
forth in the light of day, not the revenants of little 
Gartha, but haunting shades, which made this lovely 
woman’s life a life of misery, 

12 


XIX. 


Quentin was aroused by the clear tone of the Abbey 
bell. It struck the half hour. Could it then be so 
near midnight? He threw his cigar, which had gone 
out while his thoughts burned fiercely enough to have 
relighted it, into a corner, and rising he passed out 
of the archway, walked slowly up through the arbor, 
mounted the stone steps, and went along the terrace 
toward the chalet. He ascended the stairs, entered 
his room, changed his evening shoes for bedroom 
slippers, and his coat for a smoking jacket, and then 
finding that sleep and he were at daggers drawn, he 
pushed open the long French window and went out 
on the narrow little balcony. Here he began to pace 
to and fro. He mechanically lighted a cigar as he 
walked up and down, up and down, in front of his 
window, utterly lost in vain and perplexing surmises. 
Unthinking, he extended his walk the length of the 
balcony, oblivious that he might be encroaching upon 
forbidden ground. He had nearly-reached the end of 
the veranda, when suddenly he was recalled to things 
mundane by finding himself opposite an open win¬ 
dow from which a light blazed forth. An involuntary 
glance within, a flashlight picture as it were, showed 
to him St. Aubin lying upon the bed, and the priest 
at the window which gave upon the public road. 
Halle’s back was toward Quentin. He was leaning 


THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 179 


out of tlie window, and seemed to be pulling at some 
ratlier heavy weight with a hand-over-hand motion. 
Quentin heard the words from St. Aubin, “ Tell him 
that you will meet him in the glade to-morrow, and 
pay him, Bob; I have no money by me at present.” 

Quentin started back and turned himself about. 
He knew that he had stumbled upon something which 
was not intended either for his ears or eyes. That a 
mystery was afoot, he felt certain, but that it had 
nothing to do with him, of that he also was sure, and 
he was convinced that whatever these two worthies 
were planning, with regard to their midnight explora¬ 
tions into the realms of science, that he, personally, 
had nothing whatever to do with it. In the space of 
a moment these thoughts had flashed through his 
brain and he had at once faced about, but Halle had 
turned for a moment to answer St. Aubin, and in that 
moment he caught sight of an intruder. He released 
his hold on the rope. There was a cry of pain from 
some one underneath the outer wall, not heeding 
which Halle came striding across the space between 
the window and the balcony. His face had taken 
on a paler cast than ever through the passion which 
suddenly consumed him. Quentin did not know the 
man; he was transformed. St. Aubin sat up in the 
bed, and stared at Quentin with angry and astonished 
eyes. Quentin did not retreat, as he felt that this was 
no time for it. The priest’s words rolled forth from 
foam-flecked lips. 

“ So we have a spy among us—a spy among us! 
Are you aware, Count”—turning to St. Aubin— 
“that this gentleman, who comes as a guest to the 
Abbey, has been set, or has set himself, to spy upon 
us?” 


180 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


Quentin’s astonished and indignant expression 
showed St. Aubin at once that the priest had plunged 
himself into a foolish mistake. 

“Go easy, Bob,” he said in excellent English, and 
then, letting his gaze rest on the intruder: “ Pardon 
my saying to a guest of the chateau, Mr. Quentin, 
that these rooms are private, and that when-” 

“ A spy sent by His Grace! ” screamed Halle, shak¬ 
ing his fist at Quentin. “You conceal your religion 
underneath a Protestant cloak, sir, but I have had my 
doubts of you, I have-” 

“ Bob! Bob! don’t be a fool! ” reiterated St. Aubin, 
who was becoming more convinced each moment that 
Quentin was there by accident and not by premedita¬ 
tion. “You must excuse his words, Mr. Quentin; 
you know that inventors guard their secrets very jeal¬ 
ously, and Halle-<” 

“You are right, Count St. Aubin,” said Quentin, 
whose face was becoming as white as the priest’s. 
“ I came here quite by mistake; I was thinking of— 
of—other things; I assure you that I am more than 
sorry, and I apologize, Count, to you. As for Mr. 
Halle, his methods of life seem to have made him 
suspicious of the most careless and open actions in 
all with whom he comes in contact. I am Madame 
Petrofsky’s guest. I shall be leaving soon; but while 
I am here I demand from you, as the master of this 
house, respectful treatment at least, from this un¬ 
frocked priest.” 

“ There, Bob! ” said St. Aubin with a sardonic grin, 
“see what you bring upon yourself.” 

Halle’s face grew livid. He seized a chair by the 
back, as if to hurl it in the air. Quentin, instead of 
dodging behind the shelter of the wall, with a “ Par- 



THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 181 

don, Count,” sprang into the room and threw himself 
upon Halle and held him with a grip of iron. 

The priest struggled to free himself. He might as 
well have been a fish within a net. Quentin’s train¬ 
ing stood him in good stead, and he held this man, 
as tall as himself, with the ease that is produced 
in muscles which are strengthened by daily exer¬ 
cise. 

St. Aubin slipped from the bed to the floor and 
stood facing the two. 

“ You idiot! ” he said, apostrophising the priest. 
“ Mr. Quentin is, as I said, in the right. Why should 
he care to become acquainted with our little inven¬ 
tions? You see a discoverer in every shadow. It is 
an automobile, Mr. Quentin, and I firmly believe that 
persistent working over it in secret has driven Halle 
mad. Yes, I do, Bob. He is afraid that some one 
will steal the knowledge that we have gained by long 
and faithful study. Apologize to Mr. Quentin at 
once, you mild-mannered son of holy church.” 

Quentin did not let go his hold on the wrists of the 
priest. 

Halle stood writhing about and sulkily glaring de¬ 
fiance, first at Quentin and then at St. Aubin. He 
panted like an animal who has outrun his strength. 
“He has dogged my steps ever since he has been 
here, ever since he arrived,” said the priest. “He 
has followed me, and watched me, and spied upon me 
until I have been convinced that he is in the pay of 
the church to hound me to the gallows.” 

“ The gallows! ” exclaimed St. Aubin in a shaking 
voice. “Good God! Bob, what are you talking 
about? Mr. Quentin, the man’s mind is going. You 
must pardon this madman, without further apology. 


182 THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 

I really believe that liis troubles in the ehurcli have 
crazed him.” 

“I do not think he is mad, Count,” said Quentin. 
And then looking Halle in the eye, with as insolent a 
tone as he could command: “ I did not know before 
that stealing was a hanging matter in France—I 
thought that it was nothing less than murder that ”— 

At these words the priest writhed desperately and 
tried to escape from Quentin’s grasp. He snarled 
like an animal, and bent his head trying to bite with 
his strong white teeth the wrists of the hands that 
held him, but he was helpless as an infant in the 
hands of this athlete. 

“That is not fair, Mr. Quentin,” said St. Aubin. 
“ Halle has been accused, it is true, but unjustly, as 
my wife and I both-” 

“ Be silent! ” shouted the priest. “ For God’s sake, 
do not speak her name here.” 

Quentin felt more respect for the man at these 
words than he had ever felt before. All the time 
Halle was twisting, turning, and trying to look over 
his shoulder, and dragging Quentin by these move¬ 
ments a little nearer the table. Quentin, glancing in 
that direction, saw that a convenient revolver lay ready 
to hand. St. Aubin walked to the spot and took the 
weapon from the table and into an inner room. He 
returned in a moment and locked the door after him. 

“ This is new to me, ” he said. “ A madman like that 
may do anything. Belease him, Mr. Quentin; I will 
answer for his good behavior. Now, Bob—now, 
Bob-” 

Quentin loosened his hands at once, but did not re¬ 
treat from the near presence of the priest. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 183 


“ Mad! ” exclaimed Halle, raising one arm in tlie 
air in denunciation. “ And if I am mad, you know 
who has driven me mad.” He shook his clenched 
hand in St. Aubin’s face. “You know who has per¬ 
suaded, and urged, and cajoled me, until I am as deep 
in the mud as you are in the mire. You know-” 

St. Aubin had stood regarding the priest with wide- 
open eyes of astonishment. He broke in then, drown¬ 
ing Halle’s words with his own. 

“ Stop! ” he shouted. “ Stop! for God’s sake, stop! 
Do you know what you are saying here, before this 
stranger? ” Halle closed his lips and bit them sav¬ 
agely. “I knew you were queer,” continued St. Au¬ 
bin. “ The knowledge has been growing upon me of 
late, but upon my soul, Bob, I did not know that it 
had come to this. If Mr. Quentin did not know us 
all better, you might almost make him think that we 
are a band of thugs, plundering and murdering right 
and left. You-” 

“ And what else are-” began the priest. 

St. Aubin interrupted him quickly, shaking his 
head sadly. 

“ To think of it! ” he said. “ To think of it! My 
own old friend! Mr. Quentin, go away now, if you 
please. He will be right, I think, in a few moments, 
and then no one will be as sorry as he.” 

“ I do not like to leave you, ” hesitated Quentin, 
looking at the priest, who still stood in the middle of 
the room, his hand stretched forth in denunciation, 
though the words seemed frozen upon his lips. 

“ Go, go! ” said St. Aubin. “ I can manage him. 
Go! To please me, go! ” 

Quentin, at St. Aubin’s words, had stepped outside 
the window. 


184 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“ Oh! you can manage him. You! ” burst forth 
Halle. “As you have managed him before, as you 
are managing him now, as you will manage him until 
you send his soul seething in wickedness, and rotting 

in crime, to the hottest depths of-” 

“ Really ! I have never known him so bad as this,” 
said St. Aubin, with an anxious eye fixed upon the 
priest. “ I have never told any one; I have kept him 

from a maison de sant6 thus far, but-” 

“Had I not better remain?” hesitated Quentin. 
“Shall I call for-” 

Halle broke the sentence by springing toward the 
window with a pantlier-like leap, but St. Aubin, fear¬ 
ing some injury to Quentin, was upon him. He 
seized the priest from behind and wreathed his arms 
about him and struggled with him, panting out the 
Words, “If—you will—only go—I can manage him.” 
St. Aubin’s tone was so decided that Quentin reluct¬ 
antly withdrew. As his retreating steps grew fainter, 
St. Aubin released Halle, and with a quick whirl faced 
the tall man about. He stood staring steadily at the 
priest. His gaze seemed to intensify with each suc¬ 
ceeding moment—to penetrate—to burn. Halle stood 
rigid and stiff. He glared back at St. Aubin, at first 
defiantly, but after a little his eye began to quail, his 
glance to flicker and droop. A change came over 
him. His figure seemed to relax. His arm, the de¬ 
nunciatory arm, dropped by his side, he shivered, and 
fell into, rather than seated himself in, a chair. 

St. Aubin neither lowered his eyes nor changed his 
attitude. He stood as if carved in marble. 

“ Look at me! ” he said. “ Look at me! ” 

He drew Halle’s wavering eyes to his own and held 
them there. Whenever they wandered, as if they 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 185 


would steal away from the burning reproach of St. 
Aubin’s gaze, they were recalled by a something that 
seemed to glow deep within that gaze, and which held 
them whether they would or no. 

St. Aubin finally began to speak. His words came 
slowly forth with an intonation of such scathing, 
probing sarcasm as caused the priest to quiver as if 
he felt the cuts of a lash upon the bare skin. 

“And this is the way in which you keep your 
promises—your more than promises, your oaths, you 
chicken-hearted dignitary of Mother Church, you 
trustworthy ecclesiastic!—oaths which, when broken, 
place both our lives in jeopardy* Is this the faith 
that I can place in you? Is that the extent to which 
I can rely upon you? You wretched weakling! 
Rushing into the jaws of discovery and death, and 
dragging me with you, just because an innocent vis¬ 
itor at the chateau happens to stroll past the windows 
here. The hangman’s noose, indeed! I can tell you, 
you black-robed devil, that before I submit to the 
hangman’s noose at your behest, you shall be ad¬ 
judged a lunatic by all the experts in France.” 

As St. Aubin proceeded, Halle half arose and drew 
slowly toward him. He came like a dog fearful of 
being beaten, his tall body bent, his attitude one of 
cringing supplication. 

“ Stand off! Do not approach me! Do not touch 
me! A pretty friend you! I thought that at least, 
though you had no consideration for me, you might 
have some for yourself. I thought-” 

But Halle was on the floor, kneeling and holding 
to St. Aubin’s feet. 

“ Cease, Bruno, cease! I was mad, indeed, mad! 
mad! I see it now. What did I say? What did I 


186 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


do? Some one came, did lie not, to spy upon us? 
Upon you and me! Only a guest of the house, you 
say? By accident, you say? If you knew in what 
dread, what terror, I live day by day, night by night! 
I hear stealthy footsteps hunting me down. I hear 
voices when I move along the terrace in the dark. 
That night when I lurked in the wood, while the Arch¬ 
bishop was at the chateau, I heard them all about 
me. They say: ‘There he goes! Seize him! Seize 
him!’ Even when I play ghost at your bidding, I am 
afraid, afraid of myself, of my long shadow, which 
sometimes creeps, creeps, before me, sometimes comes 
behind. When I go up those dark steep stairs, I 
hear footsteps other than my own. They walk beside 
me, they rise tread by tread, as do my own, and while 
I am haunting others, I myself am haunted. Do not 
make me do it again, Bruno; do not make me do it 
again.” His voice had sunk into a whine. It was 
as the whimper of a terrified child. 

“ Get up, you coward! ” said St. Aubin fiercely. 
“You will do it again, when I order you. This very 
night, if I say so. A fine assistant I chose to confide 
in! To aid me in my inventions, my inventions, do 
you hear? My inventions! for that is all they are. 
Get up and let me hear no more of this nonsense, or 
I will have you locked up in a madhouse.” There 
was an ugly glitter in Halle’s eye. “You will tell? 
Then tell, and be damned to you! ” St. Aubin, short 
in stature as he was, stood over the tumbled heap 
beneath him. “ Tell, I say, and be damned to you! 
Who, do you think, will believe your stories, the sto¬ 
ries of a dishonored and excommunicated priest, 
against whom the Archbishop will be only too glad 
to appear? Who do you think will believe the tales of 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 187 


a wanderer and fugitive from lioly church, against the 
word of the Count St. Aubin, who is—who was— 
through his wife, one of the richest nobles of France? ” 
As St. Aubin mentioned his wife’s name, the priest 
shivered as if he had been struck. 

“ Aye, cringe and shiver and cower! You are too 
deep within the toils to escape now. There is no way 
out of it, any more than there is a way of escape from 
the nethermost hell for your deep-dyed soul—your 
deep-dyed soul—and—and—mine! ” 

St. Aubin stood looking down at the shaking heap 
before him. There was a convulsive sob. 

“ Crying, are you? ” He gave the tortured creature 
a kick with the toe of his patent leather shoe. “ Get 
up! ” he said. “ Get up! you sacerdotal sneak! Do 
you hear that brute howling under the window? It 
is a wonder that he has not awakened the entire 
house. Go and lower the rope down to him again, 
and see that this time you do not let it slip, or I will 
see to it that you play me no more such tricks.” 

When Quentin entered his room once more, he 
found Lord Eldon sitting there, composedly smoking 
his pipe and reading Figaro. He looked up as Quen¬ 
tin came in through the open window. “I have 
locked the door,” he said, in a matter-of-fact busi¬ 
ness tone, “ and have been examining the premises, at 
least so far as this room is concerned. At what time 
do they usually appear? ” 

“I was disturbed about midnight,” said Quentin, 
“ but I don’t feel as if anything short of an earthquake 
could wake me to-night. Where will you sleep? On 
the lounge or in the bed? ” 

“I’ll just throw myself down on the lounge,” an¬ 
swered the peer. “ You had better go to bed as usual. 


188 THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


Wliat was all that howling down in the road some 
moments ago? I heard voices, too, but I was inter¬ 
ested in-” 

“ Something I had no business to mix myself up 
in,” said Quentin rather slowly. “It’s getting late, 
Lord Eldon. If we intend to give the ghosts the ghost 
of a chance, we had better go to sleep and be prepared 
to receive them.” Quentin laughed as he said this, 
and going into the little dressing-room, he soon re¬ 
appeared, ready for the night. “I thought that I 
was tired,” said he, “and somehow I am suddenly 
unaccountably sleepy. Are you comfortable there? 
Why not take my dressing gown? ” 

“ Don’t speak so loud,” said Lord Eldon. “ I don’t 
want them to know that I have broken the rule as to 
apparitions.” 

“Are you comfortable? ” again asked Quentin, this 
time in a loud whisper. 

“Eight as rain,” replied Lord Eldon as he settled 
himself on the soft mattressed lounge. “ Wake me if 
you hear anything. Oh, by the way, don’t you bolt 
the door? ” 

As he spoke the little man rolled off the couch and 
was at the door leading into the dressing-room. He 
shot the bolt with a loud noise. “There! We’re 
right as trivets.” He then threw himself upon the 
lounge. “Now be sure you call me if you—you—* 

hear-” The rest of the sentence was drowned in 

a polite little snore, and Quentin was also soon in the 
land of dreams. 


XX. 


It was in that mysterious hour between midnight 
and early morning, when all the world is still, that 
Lord Eldon’s easily awakened ear, anxious for the 
summons, was greeted by a tapping upon the outer 
door. He arose at once, delighted with the success 
of his plan. Fearing greatly that he should hear a 
voice that he knew, he called sharply: 

“Who’s there?” 

There was no answer. This pleased him beyond 
words to express. He hastily lighted a candle, whis¬ 
pered to the still sleeping Quentin, “ The enemy is 
upon us,” and went hastily toward the door. He 
turned the key, which, heavy and old, grated in the 
lock, and stuck for a moment persistently, but with a 
remonstrant screech it finally gave in to superior force, 
and Lord Eldon threw open the door to find the lan¬ 
tern burning dimly, but giving out enough light to 
show that no human or other being was present. He 
stood there, rubicund and smiling, his joyous face 
giving evidence that at last his life-long wish was 
about to be realized. He was standing, looking 
eagerly down the stairs, when he heard a fresh knock¬ 
ing. This time it sounded within the room. Re¬ 
entering and locking the door after him, he went back 
to his couch and awaited further developments. 
Either the sounds of the second knocking or else the 
squeaking of the key had disturbed Quentin, and he 


190 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 

sat up in bed half awake, calling out, as had Lord 
Eldon, “Who is there?” 

He had forgotten for a moment that his room held 
another occupant than himself. 

His guest stepped lightly to the bed. He placed 
his plump hand over Quentin’s mouth and whispered 
in his ear: “ Hush! They have come at last. Get 

up and let us watch together.” 

Quentin, fairly drunk with sleep, slid from his high 
bed and joined Lord Eldon on the lounge. 

“If the knocking comes again,” said Lord Eldon, 
“ I want you to call out boldly, ‘ Who is there? ’ ” 

They sat, hardly breathing, each with his own the¬ 
ory regarding the manifestations, and each anxious to 
see what would happen next. 

The moonlight was glinting palely in at the win¬ 
dow, for it was just being quenched, so far as the 
chalet was concerned, by the trees on the opposite 
side of the valley. As the two investigators sat silent, 
awaiting developments, there came three distinct raps 
on the door leading into the dressing-room. Lord 
Eldon started up as if to go toward it, but Quentin 
held him in his place with a whispered, “ Wait a mo¬ 
ment.” Then to Lord Eldon’s surprise the door 
which he had bolted swung quietly open. 

“ By Leavens! ” he exclaimed aloud, at the same 
time springing toward the doorway. There, nothing 
rewarded his gaze. The room was dark, for the win¬ 
dows were closed. He thought that he heard foot¬ 
steps beyond him. 

“Give me a light, Quentin,” he whispered. Quen¬ 
tin lighted a candle with which he had been careful to 
supply himself, and together they passed through the 
dressing-room and so on to the closet. Here a gust 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 191 


of air pulsed upward, and Quentin fancied that lie 
heard the shuffle of a foot upon the stair. He ran to 
the stair, and took a few steps downward, but it was 
so pitch dark that he was obliged to call to his guest 
to bring the light. This Lord Eldon at once did, but 
upon examination the door at the foot of the stairs 
was found to be securely fastened. 

“Is it locked? ” asked Lord Eldon. 

“Yes,” said he. 

“ Is the key in the lock? ” 

“No,” said Quentin. 

“ Any one possessed of the key could easily enter 
from the outside. Oh, dear! Dear me! There go 
all my hopes! ” 

“ There is no doubt that any one possessed of the 
key could enter from the outside, but how do you ac¬ 
count for the opening of the door into my room? 
You saw that door open, which I myself saw you 
bolt.” 

“H—m—m—I forgot that,” said the nobleman. 

They retraced their steps, going through the dress¬ 
ing-room into Quentin’s bedroom. “ Light some can¬ 
dles,” said Lord Eldon. 

As Quentin had taken care to see that he had those 
that would burn, the apartment was soon a blaze of 
light, and seemed all at once to lose its mysterious 
aspect, but this did not put a stop to the manifesta¬ 
tions. There came a knock upon the outer door 
again, which was followed by three or four heavy 
blows. 

“That is easily done,” said Lord Eldon. “Oh, 
dear! Oh, dear! My beautiful hope, that at last I 
was to see or hear something supernatural, has flown. 
There is nothing here that cannot be explained. Any 


192 THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


one could do that—knock, I mean, and run down the 
stairs, and away in the darkness, before you could 
unlock the door. The key is bigger than the key of 
the Bastile and grates as slowly in the lock.” 

“ You forget the opening of the door. That has 
still to be explained,” said Quentin, who hated to 
have his previous night’s vigil ridiculed and set at 
naught. 

A gleam of pleasure lighted up the round face of 
Lord Eldon. 

“ We still may find a mystery,” he said. He placed 
his glasses securely on his nose and went over to the 
door of the dressing-room. He took a candle from 
the table, bent down, and scrutinized the fastening 
carefully, “No hope,” he said ruefully. "I sus¬ 
pected as much.” Quentin joined him, and together 
they stood regarding the door, which, when it had 
swung open, had carried the hasp and a square piece 
of the frame of the doorway with it. That part to 
which the socket for the bolt was attached had been 
separated from the rest of the framework by having 
been carefully sawed around, and when the door had 
swung open, the whole thing had gone together. 

There was a perceptible falling of Lord Eldon’s 
rosy jaw, “ What a disappointment! ” he exclaimed, 
“ You see that they counted on your being so terrified 
that you would on no account approach that ghostly 
door, and they thought, naturally, that when you had 
been driven from the chalet by foul means, as fair- 
means would not accomplish it, they could restore it 
to its former condition.” 

“They?” said Quentin, astounded. “Whom do 
you mean ? ” 

“ That I know no more than you.” 


THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 193 


“ But the motive. You must always look for a mo¬ 
tive. What reason could any one have to play such 
a trick on me? ” 

“ Ah! that remains to be discovered,” said the Eng¬ 
lishman. “ It is very evident that they do not want 
you in the chalet for some reason.” 

“ What about the other night when I was here alone? 
Could they do such a thing twice? ” 

“Nothing easier,” said Lord Eldon. “Just fit the 
block back again at the first chance. See here! 
They’ve even oiled it so that it would slip easily. 
Did you bolt the door the other night? ” 

“I don’t remember,” said Quentin. “But I be¬ 
lieve I did.” 

“Who do you think is up to these tricks?” asked 
his visitor. 

“ I hardly like to say. In the first place, as I told 
you, I can see no reason for them.” 

“Do you suspect Madame?” asked Lord Eldon 
with an anxious tone. He looked at the younger man 
soberly and keenly as he spoke. 

“Not in the least,” said Quentin decidedly. Lord 
Eldon smiled again. “ I think she believes as thor¬ 
oughly in a ghost of some sort over here in the chalet, 
as you wish to believe yourself. Some one said that 
she always puts a stranger over here that she may 
procure undeniable proof that the visions do really 
appear.” 

“Has any one ever seen an apparition?” asked 
Lord Eldon, holding hopefully on to the last, to his 
hopeless theory. 

“ I know nothing about that, ” replied Quentin. “ I 
know only that I heard nothing the first night I slept 
here, and though I have been disturbed since, it was 
13 


194 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


no more than an unpleasant annoyance. I really 
think, uncanny as it all was, my one desire was to 
have the thumping stop that I might get some sleep. 
There was one queer occurrence of which I have not 
told you,” he added, and Quentin then related to his 
friend the circumstance of his finding the priest 
asleep in the dressing-room, without, however, men¬ 
tioning the part that Alixe played in the sequel on 
the following morning. 

“That is very easily explained,” said Lord Eldon. 
“ I am afraid we cannot conjure up any sort of mys¬ 
tery. When that little brute, St. Aubin, goes away, 
he carries the key to his side of the chalet, the rooms 
across the landing. I have heard Madame complain 
about not being able to get into the apartment to have 
it cleaned until Bruno got back. The priest, finding 
that he could not get into St. Aubin’s rooms, where 
he always lodges when here, got the key and entered 
from the outside. He is like one of the family, and 
always has been, he-” 

“But why didn’t he sleep in the chateau? ” 

“ Didn’t I hear that the Archbishop was here the 
first evening? That would explain it to my satisfac¬ 
tion.” 

“ Yes, and to mine. The first words that I heard 
him use were with regard to Halle’s disgrace in the 
church and his being an unfrocked priest. Madame, 
being a good Catholic, would obey the Archbishop 
to avoid trouble, though she is, in a way, fond of 
Halle as St. Aubin’s friend; and though the Duchess 
may think that Halle is in no way to blame, she 
would consult his feelings, and, moreover, she would 
wish to prevent a scene in the house during His 
Grace’s visit. Halle himself probably had his rea- 



THE AKCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 195 


sons for keeping out of the way, and now that St. Au- 
bin has returned, he can always find an asylum with 
him.” 

The words asylum recalled to Quentin’s mind the 
reproaches which St. Aubin had hurled at Halle in 
his presence. He sat lost in thought. After a few 
moments he looked up at Lord Eldon. 

“I feel like a conspirator,” he said, “but I think I 
shall have to tell you what I unwillingly heard last 
evening. The priest is undoubtedly crazy and imag¬ 
ines the most absurd things, as I think you will agree 
with me when I have told you.” He then repeated 
to Lord Eldon all that had passed from the moment 
when he was aroused from his reverie by finding him¬ 
self close to St. Aubin’s windows, until he returned to 
his rooms and found his self-invited guest sitting 
there. 

“ It does look as if the man was insane,” said Lord 
Eldon, “ but if he is, St. Aubin has no right to keep 
him here among these women. No one can answer 
for such an individual. St. Aubin is certainly very 
good to harbor him here, but he had better think of 
his own safety, it seems to me. Some fine morning 
we shall find him in that room with his throat cut, 
for, from what you tell me, I can see that this priest, 
in his moods, is capable of anything. He wishes for 
some reason to make you vacate these rooms. You 
would hear if St. Aubin cried out, and then you would 
have to rush in, and in that way bring yourself up as 
a witness in a very pretty murder case. If I were 
you, Quentin, I would not sleep with the windows on 
the balcony open; he is a dangerous fellow, that 
priest! To my certain knowledge, St. Aubin and the 
family have been supporting him and defending him 


196 THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


for years. Wliat an ungrateful beast lie must 
be.” 

“ Ancl those inventions-” began Quentin. 

“I don’t wonder that you are suspicious,” replied 
the Englishman. “ All these mysteries tend toward 
that result, but there can be nothing harmful in a few 
chemicals, so far as I know. St. Aubin has never en¬ 
dangered any life but his own. Gartha’s cat, I be¬ 
lieve, is the single exception.” 

“ Twice have I seen into the interior of those rooms,” 
Quentin answered. “ Unexpectedly, it is true, and on 
both occasions the covers of certain boxes have been 
closed quickly before my very eyes; closed, too, on a 
mass of clockwork and machinery.” 

“ Nothing strange in that, Quentin. I have a ma¬ 
chine shop myself. If you will come to Eldon Tow¬ 
ers, as I hope you will a little later, for the shooting, 
I will reward your best shots by showing you how far 
my experiments have succeeded.” 

“This is the 13th, isn’t it? ” asked Quentin. 

“ Yes, yes. I am late this year, it is true, but I 
shan’t be long now,” said Lord Eldon. “Now as to 
machinery, I believe you have some fancy that way 
also, haven’t you? Now, which do you consider the 
best method on which to run an automobile, electricity 
or gasoline? ” 

Thus led away from the subject in hand, Quentin 
fell into a long discussion on the relative merits of the 
two propelling agencies, which lasted until the sun 
came pouring in at the windows above the roadway, 
which Quentin threw open, and the priest and his 
strange behavior were forgotten for a time. Not en¬ 
tirely, however, as the following episode will show. 


XXI. 


Lord Eldon made himself as presentable as the cir¬ 
cumstances would permit, and was about to leave the 
chalet rooms to run down to the little river for a dip, 
as some one came running up the stairs. It was St. 
Aubin, who met him face to face. 

“ You, Eldon! ” said he. “ You nearly tumbled 
me down again. You are making an early visit to 
Quentin’s rooms.” 

“I went there last night,” answered Lord Eldon 
imperturbably. “In fact, I spent the night in his 
rooms.” 

“You spent the night there?” St. Aubin’s face 
flushed angrily, and then grew pale. 

“ Yes, I spent the night there. You know, St. Au¬ 
bin, that I am an indefatigable seeker after knowledge 
of a certain sort. I had heard of your nightly visit¬ 
ants, and I wished to prove or disprove the tales by 
the evidence of my own senses.” 

“ So you left the rooms which my wife had pre¬ 
pared for you,” began St. Aubin in an angry, sarcastic 
tone, which he changed almost at once on seeing Lord 
Eldon’s haughty and astonished face. 

“ Pardon me, St. Aubin. I had no idea that there 
was a mystery to maintain. I came over here merely 
in the interest of sci-” 

“Nor is there any mystery to maintain,” broke in 
St. Aubin. “It seems strange to me, however, that 
two of our guests should conspire-” 



198 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


"Conspire!” exclaimed Lord Eldon indignantly. 
“ Where is the conspiracy? When one announces be¬ 
forehand that he is going to sit up and watch for the 
supernatural, he is certain to get it, and plenty of it. 
I have tried that before. I nearly killed my younger 
brother Ottley, who thought he would give me a 
fright. No, no! I wished to judge for myself, with¬ 
out heralding my determination.” 

"And were you satisfied? ” questioned St. Aubin, 
looking searchingly into the face of his guest. 

" More than satisfied, ” replied Lord Eldon. “ Come 
and see.” 

“ I saw Quentin going up the hill a half hour ago,” 
said St. Aubin as he turned into the room. “That 
was the reason why I thought it strange to find you 
here.” 

“ Did you think I would run away with the tub or 
the candles?” laughed Lord Eldon. “From Quen¬ 
tin’s account the candles are not of much—ha! He 
thought the rooms empty, no doubt! ” This sudden 
change of tone and subject was caused by the sight 
which met his eyes, and which he indicated to his 
host with outstretched hand. They halted in the 
middle of the room, gazing at the priest, who was just 
straightening his bent form from a close and obvi¬ 
ously hurried scrutiny of the bolt, which should have 
held the door in place. In his hand he held a screw¬ 
driver, and as he started away from the neighborhood 
of the door, the partly restored hasp swung out of 
place and hung downward with a tell-tale rattle. 

“ Ha! ” said Lord Eldon, “ evidently thought the 
occupant gone! ” 

St. Aubin turned on the priest with cold anger in 
his look and tone. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 199 


“ Wliat are you doing liere? ” he asked freezingly. 

Halle stood, looking awkwardly at the two. 

“I am breaking the eleventh commandment,” he 
answered with an attempt at bravado and the ghost 
of a smile on his pale face. 

“You are hopeless, Robert Halle,” exclaimed St. 
Aubin. “What business have you to tamper with 
the doors of the chalet? Is there any reason for it? ” 

Halle turned sulkily away, muttering something 
about always having been in the habit of repairing 
the locks in the house. That he had started early on 
his rounds- 

“ May I ask how Father Halle got into this room? ” 
asked Lord Eldon. “ He was not here when I left it 
a few moments ago, and did not pass me on the stair.” 

“Through the window probably,” said St. Aubin 
carelessly. “Don’t bother your head again about it, 
Bob, while our guests remain. It is true, Eldon, he 
is in the habit of repairing the locks. I had forgot¬ 
ten that.” There was a sudden rush of cold air from 
the third room or closet which swept across the faces 
of all three. 

“ I intend with your permission to probe this thing 
to the bottom, St. Aubin,” said Lord Eldon. “I 
have seen so much now that-” 

“ Your freedom is rather more than that of a guest,” 
began St. Aubin, but Lord Eldon had walked hastily 
through the rooms and to the further staircase, from 
which now a faint light shone. He ran down the 
stairs and found the iron door at the bottom open the 
width of a crack. The key was in the lock, but on 
the outside. St. Aubin had followed him to the land¬ 
ing. 

Lord Eldon took the key from the outside of the 


200 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 

door, placed it on tlie inside, turned it in the lock and 
came hastily up the stairs. 

“I can see no reason for Father Halle’s trying to 
deceive me, ” he said facing St. Aubin angrily. “ Why 
didn’t he answer my question truthfully? ” 

“Bruno,” said the priest, “how long are you go¬ 
ing to allow Lord Eldon to speak to me in that tone? 
You said that I came in by the window. Is not that 
enough? What does Lord Eldon suppose I want in 
Mr. Quentin’s rooms? Does he think that I wish to 
steal some of Mr. Quentin’s belongings? ” 

“Father Halle’s previous record,” began Lord El¬ 
don, now thoroughly angry- 

“Go back to my rooms, Bob,” said St. Aubin, fear¬ 
ing a more serious outbreak. “ I insist. I will not 
have any quarrel between you and Lord Eldon.” 

Halle turned on St. Aubin a resistent and defiant 
stare. 

“ Go! ” said St. Aubin. He looked Halle steadily 
in the face for a moment, and as he looked, the priest 
began to waver, then his eyes fell, he dropped his 
tools with a loud clang upon the floor, and facing 
about, he went out of the room and across to the op¬ 
posite chambers. Lord Eldon then closed and locked 
the door. 

“Now, St. Aubin,” said he, “I wish to have this 
out with you. Come over here. See there! where 
the bolt has been loosened by sawing round it. See 
the marks of the chisel afresh in those screws.” St. 
Aubin followed his guest quickly across the tiled 
floor. He knelt down and examined the marks of 
which Lord Eldon spoke. 

“Yes,” he said reluctantly. “It is all true. The 
man must be perfectly, insanely mad. I have thought 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 201 


Mm queer for some time. He turns on me for the 
slightest cause, perhaps some fancied wrong, and de¬ 
nounces me to my face, and threatens to denounce me 
to any or every one. I do not know what to do with 
him. The poor fellow has no other home but this. 
I really think that his troubles have unsettled his 
mind.” There was a knock at the door. Lord Eldon 
opened it, whereupon he found Eugene standing on 
the threshold. Eugene said that he had been sent by 
Eatlier Halle to say to Lord Eldon that Mr. Quen¬ 
tin’s sleeve links were quite safe. Eugene looked 
puzzled as he delivered the sentence which he had 
been empowered to repeat. 

"That will do, Eugene,” said St. Aubin, closing the 
door. 

Then turning to Lord Eldon: “The man is un¬ 
doubtedly crazy. I cannot see what spite he has 
against Mr. Quentin. A week ago he had never seen 
him. I cannot think what fancied spite he has taken 
against you. Of course I shall take the key of the 
door, and bolt it well, but a lunatic will discover some 
way to get into the room of a person whom he dislikes, 
and I fear that I cannot be answerable for Mr. Quen¬ 
tin’s personal safety, if he persists in sleeping in the 
chalet.” 

“And I should not be answerable for Father 
Halle’s,” said Lord Eldon, laughing, “if he tried any 
trick on Quentin. He is a capital shot, though fire¬ 
arms do not enter into the subject under discussion. 
He was the coach of the Harvard nine, and one of the 
crew which beat us over in England some years ago 
in athletic sports. He comes highly recommended in 
every way. I judge him to be a man of great courage 
and spirit, and I should not advise Father Halle to 


202 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


annoy him too much; he might pitch him out of the 
window.” 

St. Aubin’s face reddened. 

“ Then, too,” continued Lord Eldon, “do you think 
it right to keep such an irresponsible person about? ” 

St. Aubin tossed his head backward, as if to throw 
off a feeling of irritation; then he said: 

“We must try to control him. We must watch 
him. I should not like to send the poor fellow to a 
maison de sante, but if it comes to the worst-” 

And they left the room together. 

Lord Eldon started down the stairs. 

“I am coming down in a moment,” called St. Aubin 
after his guest. “Breakfast must be ready.” 

St. Aubin watched Lord Eldon until he disap¬ 
peared under the archway leading out to the terrace. 
Then he crossed the small landing and opened the 
door of his room. The priest sat in a chair by the 
window looking out upon the road and the hillside. 
His long body was doubled, up and bent, his elbows 
were on his knees, his head in his hands. 

St. Aubin closed the door, and stood staring at the 
tonsured head. Halle did not appear to have heard 
his entrance. He did not look up. 

“Well,” said St. Aubin, “what have you to say for 
yourself? ” 

The priest now raised his head, and sat regarding 
St. Aubin with half-closed eyes, the lids of which 
trembled visibly. Occasionally he cast them down, 
then took a long breath, and, raising his head deter¬ 
minedly, looked his tormentor in the face. 

“What have you to say for yourself? ” repeated St. 
Aubin. 

There was silence for a time. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 203 


“I asked you a question. Did you hear me? 
What have you to say? ” persisted St. Aubin. 

Halle drew a sharp breath. Then he opened his 
lips. At first no words came, though they seemed 
to be struggling through some barrier. He cleared 
his throat hoarsely, then said slowly: 

“I told you in there,” nodding to the rooms across 
the hall. “I have broken the eleventh command¬ 
ment—I have been found out.” 

"The only commandment you ever did break, I 
suppose.” The priest, at the sneer in St. Aubin’s 
tone, straightened himself and looked at him savagely. 

"Bob,” said St. Aubin, in such a tone as a judge 
uses when he pronounces sentence, " you are getting 
utterly unreliable. I fear that I cannot keep you here 
longer. Only last evening I received a letter from 
the Archbishop, saying he had heard that you were 
about here again, and that he will denounce me if I 
harbor you. You let yourself be seen outside. I 
cannot be responsible for your mad acts or your mad¬ 
der speeches. Why, after a time, if I allow you to 
remain here, and say and do the things you say and 
do, people will begin to think that I am really the 
man that you try to make me out. They will begin 
to believe that I, like some bewildering siren, have 
actually beckoned you from the path of rectitude, 
that I have lured you from the high plane of virtue, 
not to say holiness; in fact, you will finally make 
them believe that I am as utterly depraved as you are 
yourself.” At these words Halle dropped his head 
between his hands. He spoke, and his words came 
to St. Aubin in a sort of hoarse whispered ejaculation. 

" Oh, my good Lord! ” he said. “ Oh, my good 
Lord!” 


204 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“He is not listening, Bob,” said St. Aubin, with a 
grin of malice. “Remember that you are no longer 
a disciple of holy church; you are no longer her 
pious, faithful son. You have the confidence of no 
one. You have become a pariah, Robert, my some¬ 
time friend; one who skulks along the by-paths of the 
world, a creature who is afraid of his own shadow; 
you have become that thing of scorn, an unfrocked 
priest.” 

Halle again raised his head and looked at St. Au¬ 
bin. Two words escaped his lips. “ You devil! ” he 
said, and then again, “ You devil! ” 

“ Now, Bob, no heroics. Let me say once for all, 
that if you cannot carry out my orders better than 
you have of late, you may resign the position. When 
Alixe knows all, all that I shall tell her, when I make 
her understand, when I explain about Virginia Dani- 
elli-” 

As St. Aubin began to speak, the priest interrupted 
him with the words, “ And what about yourself? ” but 
at the name of Alixe he fell upon the floor at St. Au- 
bin’s feet. 

“ Mercy! ” he groaned. “ Mercy! Have mercy.” 

“ It would do you no good to say that you will re¬ 
taliate, Bob; as the children say, ‘ Tell on me.’ ” 

“ Have mercy, Bruno, I beg of you. Have a little 
mercy. She is the only soul in the world for whom 
I care; her good opinion the only one for which I 
seek.” 

“ And you have gone a good way to work to get it. 
Don’t try the moral dodge, Bob,” said St. Aubin 
sneeringly. “Anything but a moral priest.” 

“ I loved her long before you thought of loving her, 
Bruno,” continued Halle, unheeding the interruption. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 205 


“ When they made me a priest and cut me off from 
the chance of ever telling her so, they cut me off from 
all that earth held for me of heaven. She is the only 
creature that I believe in. Her regard, her friendship 
are all that keep me from confessing the truth—the 
truth, not alone as it concerns me, Bruno, but as it 
concerns us both. Do not push me too far”—the 
man’s voice broke—“do—not—-push me too far, or I 
shall confess; I shall confess all, from the day when 
I first met your hellish face, to the very moment, 
when I, on my own behalf, come to declare the truth 
about Virginia Danielli-” 

“ It is high time that you took your departure for 
an asylum, my friend,” said St. Aubin coldly. He 
stood looking down upon the wretch before him. 
The priest’s face was wet with streams of tears. He 
was sobbing in his throat. “A maniac’s cell is the 
only place for you. The only thing to save you in 
the eyes of those men is the suggestion that you are 
insane.” 

As St. Aubin said the words, “Those men,” he 
nodded across the landing toward the rooms which 
Quentin occupied. 

“You will not say it to her—to Alixe, Bruno— 
Bruno! Bruno, you will not.” 

“ I shall wait and see how you behave. But no 
more blundering, Father Halle. I warned you 
against that wild plan, loosening that block every 
evening, and screwing it up every morning. A stu¬ 
pid, foolish plan. But you must perforce have your 
own way, and now see what it brings upon you! Now, 
get up! Get up, I say, from the floor, you drivelling 
hound; haven’t you any self-res-” 

There was a knock at the door. 


206 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“Breakfast, Monsieur le Comte,” said the voice of 
Charles. 

“ Very well, in a moment,” called St. Aubin in his 
gayest tones. He turned to Halle. “Wash your 
face, you heavenly innocent, and come down as if 
nothing had happened. I shall make Quentin think 
that you imagine yourself insulted by him. It will 
be a devil of a job, but don’t you spoil it by speaking 
or trying to make any explanation, or it’s all'up with 
us—with you, rather, for I do not intend to be ruined 
in the eyes of any one by a priestly hireling, whom I 
have fed and clothed and cared for since we were chil¬ 
dren.” As St. Aubin finished he ran out of the room, 
slamming the door to behind him with a loud bang. 
Halle sat and listened to his retreating footsteps. 
His gaze was fixed moodily on the floor. He shook 
his head tragically, as he gazed at one spot, uncon¬ 
scious almost of what he was doing. “ Since we were 
children! ” he said. “ Since we were children! ” 


XXII. 


As St. Aubin came toward tlie recess where the out- 
of-door meal was laid, he approached Madame with a 
solemn face and said in a low voice: 

“ I am glad that the Baroness and Mademoiselle are 
not down, Mamaslia. Bob has been acting so 
strangely. If it goes on much longer, we shall have 
to put him under restraint, I fear.” He turned to 
Quentin. “You know that those who are insane al¬ 
ways give a reason other than the real one for their 
anger against a certain person or persons. Now, 
Halle is very much incensed against you. He says 
that it is because you stumbled upon his ridiculously 
secret manner of getting his automobile apparatus into 
the chalet, whereas the real reason is that he fancies 
himself in love with my wife, and he sees in every 

chance stranger a possible-” 

“ Oh, Bruno! Do not say such things! What will 
Mr. Quentin—” Alixe’s voice died away, her face 
was suffused with crimson. 

“ What bad taste, Bruno! ” said Madame. “ How 
can you? Are you losing your judgment? ” 

Quentin raised an angry glance to this man 
who could take such an occasion to humiliate his 
wife. 

“ It is all true, Mamasha. He now imagines that 
Mr. Quentin is his rival and is plotting-” 



208 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“Poor Robert!” said Alixe, who had quickly re¬ 
gained her self-possession, “and poor Mr. Quentin, 
to be the subject of such ridiculous conversation. 
Should you not take him away, Bruno? I mean 
Robert, Mr. Quentin, not you,” said Alixe, smiling 
and showing her white teeth, set in a point under her 
short upper lip; “ take him to some expert, Bruno, 
some expert in Paris, and see if there is really any¬ 
thing the matter with his mind. Ah, Robert! Here 
you are! Come and sit by me. Coffee? Chocolate? 
Or will you let me make you a cup of real English 
tea? ” 

Halle looked the image of wretchedness. He 
glanced furtively at Lord Eldon, who was sheltered 
behind his newspaper deep in the latest news of the 
Dreyfus scandal. 

“ What is the dernier mot with regard to 1’Affaire, 
Lord Eldon? ” asked Madame. 

Halle glanced at Quentin, but his eyes were fixed 
on Lord Eldon, as he listened to the want of testi¬ 
mony ini’Affaire. He glanced at St. Aubin, who had 
turned and was calling gayly to Yalery as he flashed 
along the terrace: “Hulloa, you magnificent Rasta- 
quouere! Where do you manage to get all your fine 
feathers? ” 

Gartha was hanging upon her father’s arm, and 
the laughter of the child and the hearty answering 
shout of the gentleman, “From Africa, faith! 
It isn’t so much the feathers, me jool, as the way 
in which you wear ’em,” filled the morning air. 
Every one turned to watch the approach of this 
gorgeous person but the priest. He sank into a 
chair at the side of Alixe, his attitude spiritless and 
hopeless. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 209 


“ You angel! ” he murmured under his breath. 
“ You dear angel. My saint! My saint! ” 

“Don’t, Robert,” she said, gravely, as she gave 
him a friendly clasp, which was quickly shortened, 
as he saw fit to press her hand too closely within his 
own. “You have been working too hard, Robert. 
We must have some excursions. They will be good 
for you all. I have been selfish. Gartlia, would you 
like a picnic? Don’t you remember our old picnics, 
Robert? We must think where to go, and decide 
upon the day, must not we, little Gartha? ” 

Quentin could hardly repress an exclamation of dis¬ 
gust as he saw her evident friendliness for the priest 
in whom he had concluded that all the cardinal sins 
had found refuge. 

“ You dear angel! ” repeated Halle in a low tone. 
“Rather than give you one moment’s unhappiness I 
would go away—” he broke off and bit his lip. A 
tear-drop fell upon the hand which held out his cup 
to him. Quentin, although he had withdrawn his 
eyes, looked again, he could not help it; he was puz¬ 
zled at what he saw on the face of the priest, and at 
the wondering sadness in the eyes of Alixe. He heard 
nothing of what they were saying, but it seemed to 
him that she looked at her old playfellow with eyes 
of pity, because she heard in his words, whatever they 
might have been, but the ravings of an incipient mad¬ 
man. 

“ But there is no question of giving unhappiness, 
Robert,” said Alixe gently. “I received the blow of 
my life some days ago—last week, was it not? I can¬ 
not remember. It seems ages ago that I heard that 
dreadful news. I wanted only a little time before I 
faced the world again. You are sorry for me, I know, 
14 


210 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


Robert. You would have prevented that sorrow com¬ 
ing into my life could you have done so, that I also 
know. ” 

Halle leaned toward her and said under his breath, 
in agonized whispers: 

“ Oh, say that again, Alixe; say that again! ” 

“ Yes, I will say it again if you wish, but that can 
change nothing, Robert. These matters are not the 
work of human agency; ” her tone was low and sol¬ 
emn; “they are the acts of God. As such, we must 
accept them and not complain.” 

Halle leaned nearer. He looked up into her face, as 
an animal gazes upon a worshipped master. 

“Alixe,” he whispered eagerly, seemingly forget¬ 
ful of every one but the woman before him, 
“Alixe, I have a great mind to tell you—to confess to 
you-” 

“Bob!” It was St. Aubin’s rasping voice, calling 
from the further end of the table. “ What are you 
going into heroics about? You skeleton of religion, 
you ghostly sham-expounder of the faith of holy 
church! You are not handsome enough, Bobby, dar¬ 
ling, with your hollow eyes, and your lank figure, to 
confess to the ladies. It takes a prelate like our friend 
the Archbishop to-” 

Alixe broke hurriedly in upon St. Aubin’s taunts. 

“No, no, Robert,” she said in a low tone, patting 
kindly the hand of her old friend. She felt that his 
mind, never very strong, must have been temporarily 
unhinged by his troubles, troubles which he fancied 
greater than they were. The Archbishop might warn 
them all against him, and she valued the Archbishop’s 
opinion, no one’s more; but he could not force her to 
desert her old playmate or to make her believe that 



THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 211 


he had erred intentionally. “ Come here, little Gar- 
tlia,” she called, “ and tell me where you would like to 
go for our picnic.” She smiled at the child, although 
her face seemed now to wear a settled mask of sad¬ 
ness. Gartha left her father and danced gayly up to 
Alixe. Quentin glanced at the priest. He sat look¬ 
ing at his untasted cup and gnawing his thin under lip. 


xxm. 


Quentin did not see anything of Alixe for some days. 
After that one appearance at breakfast, she kept to 
her own room very closely. The only answer that 
Quentin got from any one, when he asked each day 
as to the state of her health, was that she had a slight 
cold. He wondered if anything more serious kept 
her away from the circle gathered under her roof, and 
whether her malady were physical or mental. 

Meanwhile Madame, the ever-perennial, divided her 
attentions between Quentin and Lord Eldon, taking 
first one and then the other on exploring expeditions 
among the hills and valleys that surrounded the fav¬ 
ored situation of l’Abbaye de Bref. Quentin saw 
Lord Eldon depart for his first drive with Madame 
with a subdued smile upon his lips. He had driven 
with her on the day previous, and the sauce for one 
goose seemed to be flavored in exactly the same manner 
and served up just as delicately as for the other. 
Quentin felt pretty sure that he knew just the sweet 
little starts and surprised exclamations to which 
Madame was treating Lord Eldon, and he wondered 
with a strange feeling somewhat akin to jealousy if 
the starts and exclamations were any sweeter or more 
frequent in the case of the one than of the other—the 
one being the British peer, the other himself. 

Madame was an extremely attractive woman, of that 
there was not the very slightest doubt. She was in 
appearance much younger than her years. She wore 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 213 


a high pleated lace close about her throat at the spot 
where age the soonest asserts itself. Upon her pretty 
blonde head she wore a dainty round hat with frills of 
white mousseline de soie, and, enveloping this, a vol¬ 
uminous white veil, upon which many bouquets of 
flowers and numerous vines and scriggles wandered, 
concealing any incipient wrinkle which might be 
growing more pronounced upon her fine skin. Her 
face was so concealed that, but for the occasional flash 
of her really handsome eyes and the tender pleading 
of her affectionate voice, one would hardly have recog¬ 
nized this feminine Jehu who sat so upright in the lit¬ 
tle phaeton and drove the spirited horses with the skill 
of an Englishwoman. One must not reckon without 
Madame’s youthful figure. If not so tall as Alixe, 
she held herself straighter, perhaps, because of that, 
and when one looked for the initial time on what 
Miss Spencer had called “Mamasha’s phenomenal 
back,” one knew not whether the face which he would 
shortly behold would be that of a young girl or a face 
which had charmed its admirers for more than two- 
score years. 

Both Quentin and Lord Eldon had been persuaded 
to extend the length of their visits. To Quentin the 
place and its surroundings were of a growing fascina¬ 
tion, and every day found him more unwilling to leave 
them. Lord Eldon also seemed content to remain. 
So, with the exception of Yalery, the house party had 
not changed since the exodus on the second day of 
Quentin’s stay. Both men thought that they had 
solved the mystery of the nightly visitants. There 
was still a show of keeping up the knockings, but as 
they came now either directly underneath Quentin’s 
room, or on his outer door, he felt quite sure that 


214 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 

they had been of the priest’s designing, for since the 
door at the foot of the stairs had been locked, and 
Lord Eldon had hidden the key, no one knew where, 
the dressing room and the little closet had echoed no 
more to the fall of ghostly footsteps. The two men 
gave Halle the coldest nods of recognition when they 
met him. Sometimes this was not for a day or two. 
The man seemed to disappear. He was seldom at the 
table, and but for the occasional flutter of his black robe 
in the distance, or upon the chalet stair, he seemed to 
have vanished entirely from the life of the chateau. 

It was on the second day after the withdrawal of 
Alixe to her own rooms that Madame had started out 
for her alternate flirtation with Lord Eldon. It mat¬ 
tered not so much to Madame (and this Quentin, with 
a lingering feeling of pride in her attentions to him¬ 
self, was obliged to confess to his inmost soul) who 
was the object of her ephemeral devotion. The affec¬ 
tion always sprang full-fledged from a breast where it 
was ever Spring. Her eyes always told the alternate 
that he and he alone was the chosen recipient of that 
affection. 

St. Aubin had withdrawn to his own rooms, leav¬ 
ing Quentin to discuss the comparative merits of sin¬ 
gle stitch and cross stitch with the Baroness, who 
was engaged in making (so she informed Quentin) a 
reproduction of the Bayeux tapestry. After having 
admired, ad nauseam, the fiftieth sketch of the Ab¬ 
bey, done by Mademoiselle, which was perhaps less 
like it than any of its predecessors, he got up and 
strolled away, hardly knowing what to do with himself, 
until his fair-and-forty enslaver should return and 
deal out to him the remaining dregs of affection which 
she had not dribbled away upon the British peer. 


XXIY. 


As Quentin lounged along, cigar alight, hands in 
pockets, he found himself at the end of the terrace 
and at the top of a flight of steps which he had not 
seen before. He descended the steps and, as he 
walked, trying to reason out in his beclouded mind 
many a perplexing surmise, he heard a voice call¬ 
ing to him. It came from above his head. Quen¬ 
tin stopped and looked upward. Gartha was perched 
on the top of the wall under the shadow of a large 
tree which stood some distance back from the boun¬ 
dary of the domain, its sweeping branches, however, 
throwing a delightful shade across the child’s posi¬ 
tion. 

“Come up here, Mr. Quentin,” called Gartha. 

“How shall I get up there? ” asked Quentin, noth¬ 
ing loath, but seeing no way to manage it. “ How 
did you get there? ” 

“Easily enough,” answered Gartha. “Go on a lit¬ 
tle way and you will find the escalier—stairs, I mean. 
It is so hard not to speak it, is it not, Mr. Quentin? ” 

Quentin laughed as he walked onward. In a mo¬ 
ment he came to a small flight of stone steps, built 
against the inner side of the wall. They were so nar¬ 
row that he was forced to plant one foot carefully be¬ 
fore the other in ascending. Once or twice he was in 
danger of losing his balance, at which Gartha laughed 
aloud unfeelingly. 


216 THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“I do not wish yon to fall, Mr. Quentin; yet nom de 
Dieu! §a me ferait beauconp de plaisir! ” called the 
child. “Valery once tried to get up here, but his 
figure would not allow it. O! Yoila! O, mon Dieu! 
Q’est epatant!” This because Quentin, in looking 
upward, had lost his balance, and was forced to spring 
to the ground. 

“ That’s a very contradictory statement,” said Quen¬ 
tin, smiling gayly up at her. “ Now you may laugh 
as much as you please, I shall be up there in two 
minutes.” 

“Do you recognize this spot?” asked Gartha as he 
seated himself by her side on the tiled roof of the 
wall. 

“Yes,” answered Quentin, “I think so. Isn’t this 
the very place where you and I first made acquaint¬ 
ance with each other? ” 

“ Yes, it is the very spot, and there is a little porte— 
door, I mean—along there near the foot of the steps, 
where Alixe came in that night, when she was calling 
me, you know, after meeting with that horrid Father 
Halle.” 

“Then you don’t like Father Halle.” 

“ Ah, bah, non! I am on His Grace’s side. I am a 
Catholic child, but if I was not, Mr. Quentin, don’t 
you think any one would nat-nat-naturally love His 
Grace and hate Bobert Halle? ” 

“Well,” said Quentin, smiling down on the thin, 
eager face, “ I don’t know that I should love or hate 
either one. I shouldn’t take enough interest. You 
use strong language for so small a girl.” 

Gartha plumed herself and raised her head like a 
young turkey. 

“ Yes, that is what they all say, I have very decided 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 217 


con—con-victions. Then you don’t like my dear 
Archbishop? ” 

“ Oh, yes, I do! I like His Grace immensely, but 
as to loving him, I leave that to the ladies.” 

“ Mamasha loves him, I am certain. I believe if he 
was not a sacerdotal she would marry him on the first 
occasion. ” 

Quentin experienced that slight feeling of sinkage 
about the region of the heart which results to mortals 
when they discover that they alone have not uncon¬ 
trolled possession of a certain well-spring of affection, 
fatal as such possession may be. 

“You must not talk so about Madame Petrofsky,” 
said Quentin loyally, in as severe a voice as he could 
muster, “ or about the Archbishop either. Little girls 
should-•” 

“ Oh, yes, I know, saw and not heard; but if I must 
not be saw or heard, I have saw and heard for my 
own self.” 

“How old are you?” asked Quentin. 

“I’m nearly seven,” said Gartha, pressing her lips 
together with a self-conscious air; “ but, then, I’m ex¬ 
tremely pre—pre—what is it I am, Mr. Quentin?” 

“Precocious? ” asked Quentin with becoming grav¬ 
ity. 

“ Yes; that is what Mr. le Maurier said. Did you 
ever see Mamasha hang on to His Emnunce’s hand? 
The big one with the ring on it.” 

“ I don’t know any His Eminence,” replied Quentin. 

“Oh, yes, you do. It’s the Archbishop; but I 
think he ought to be a cardinal, so I called him His 
Emnunce. One day when the Cardinal came to see 
us in Paris I called him Your Grace, and Mamasha 
sent me to bed for it. She never hung on to the Car- 


218 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 

dinal’s hand. He is much too old for the vanities of 
this life, Marie Monrouge says; but I saw her go to 
kiss the Archbishop’s hand one day, and she said, 
‘You dear!’ And the queer thing was My Emnunce 
did not seem to be at all gene about it. You see, the 
Cardinal is a person qu’on ne peut pas tromper.” 

“ Where does this road lead to? ” asked Quentin, in¬ 
dicating the highway which ran at the foot of the wall. 

“ I do not know. What do you think Robert Halle 
wanted with Alixe that night? ” 

Quentin put on his most severe expression. “ Had 
your aunt wished us to know, ” he said, “ she would 

have told us; as she did not-” 

“ It was only to give Robert the key to the west 
wing of the chalet. She told me so.” 

“And you are telling me; that is very wrong,” said 
Quentin, secretly delighted that Alixe had made no 
mystery of her actions to the child. 

“ She said—I mean Alixe—that poor Robert had 
been hounded by the church, and had not where to 
lay his head. That’s in the prayer-book, is it not, 
Mr. Quentin? And she said that if Uncle Bruno— 
how I hate my Uncle Bruno! She said that if Uncle 
Bruno were here he would give him a pied-a-terre un¬ 
til the trouble had blown over. When will the trouble 
blow over, Mr. Quentin?” 

“ How do I know, Gartlia? Do you know that you 
are a very naughty little girl to repeat this to me? If 

your aunt wished me to know it, she-” 

“ I have not told it to any one else, and I know you 
will not,” said Gartlia. “What is it Ada Spencer 
says? Oh, yes! Give me away! She says that is 
pure American. What nice things one can say in 
American. I know very much of American, Mr. 


THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 219 


Quentin. I know £ a perfect jay * and ‘straight as a 
string.’ Harry Ware taught me of those.” 

“And who is Harry Ware? ” asked Quentin. “It 
seems to me that I hear of some new acquaintance of 
yours every day.” 

“ Oh, he’s another of Mamasha’s. He said she had 
him straight as a string and he felt like thirty-nine 
cents. Did you ever feel like thirty-nine cents, Mr. 
Quentin? (Quelle est la monnaie de cuivre en Angle- 
terre—I mean is the thirty-nine cents of that money 
of copper?) ” 

“No,” said Quentin, “I don’t think I ever did.” 

“ When I asked Alixe what it meant, she said that 
he could not be of our set. When I asked Yalery, he 
said he must be an outsider. When I asked Made¬ 
moiselle what it meant to feel like thirty-nine cents, 
she said it was a prix fixe. It was just like throwing 
off the louis, the franc, or the centime. The Weasel 
said she thought Harry Ware must be a comrnis voy- 
ageur. I asked Harry Ware if he was—a comrnis voy- 
ageur, I mean—and he gave me a blow of the eye, and 
said no, he did not think so. Yalery said I was 
speaking the Greek to him. How could I speak the 
Greek to Harry Ware? I cannot speak the Greek to 
any one else. Yalery said that if I had asked him if 
he was a bummer, no, I mean drummer, he would 
have understood me. Harry Ware was lovely! He 
had some sort of strange, flat boxes in his rooms, and 
one day when I was visiting him ”—Quentin drew his 
breath at this astounding confession—“ he opened one 
and gave me some lovely square bits of cloth. He 
gave them for my dolls.” 

“ Stop a moment. Let me ask you how you came 
to be visiting Mr. Harry Ware? ” 


220 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 

“ Oh, mon Dien! Do you not know that he had 
your apartments in the chalet? Alixe was in Paris. 
She scolded me well when she came back. Mamasha 
was walking with Monsieur le Maurier and——” 

“ Well, go on,” said Quentin impatiently, “ go on! ” 

“ He told me many strange stories of his adventures. 
He said that once a man gave him a box full of choco¬ 
late. He called it a trunk. I thought that only ele¬ 
phants was possessed with trunks, Mr. Quentin; and 
he paid Harry Ware’s expenses, the man that gave 
the chocolate did, to Mon Real.” Gartha meant Mon¬ 
treal. “Where is Mon Real, Mr. Quentin?” Not 
waiting for a reply: “ And he got hungry, Harry Ware 
did. He said food was scarce. How could food be 
scarce? I never knew of food that it was scarce, Mr. 
Quentin! And he ate up all the chocolate; and he 
said they had not seen him since. When he said 
that he laughed very loud and gave some coup of the 
foot, so, on the gravel, flat! He danced a few steps— 
oh, mon Dieu! He made me to laugh. He said it 
w r as the double-shuffler. What is a double-shuffler, 
Mr. Quentin? Can you dance one? ” 

“No,” said Quentin, “I have never learned that ac¬ 
complishment. You mean, I suppose, a double¬ 
shuffle.” 

“Yes,” said Gartha, whose face had fallen at Quen¬ 
tin’s declaration that he had never learned the double- 
shuffle. 

“ Well, no matter,” she said in an encouraging tone. 
“Perhaps you can learn some day. Harry Ware 
could teach you—but no, I forgot, Harry Ware will 
never come back here again.” 

“Why not?” asked Quentin. 

“Because I showed Mamasha a little echantillon 


THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 221 


and told her what Mademoiselle and Yalery had re¬ 
marked, and she said”—here Gartlia’s body took on 
a swinging motion from her waist upward; she swayed 
from side to side; she pursed out her lips, and mouthed 
exaggeratedly, and repeated in a sing-song tone, which 
kept time to the nodding of her head: “ * That is the 
last of Henery Ware!' That’s what Mamasha said, 
‘That is the last of Henery Ware!’ She was of a 
rougeur, Mamasha! Yalery said it was tragic. What 
is tragic, Mr. Quentin? Mamasha was very fond of 
that jeune homme, and Harry Ware was very fond of 
her until Alixe came along; she always does, you 
know.” 

“Always does what? ” asked Quentin. 

“Come along. When I’m big, I’m going to wear 
my hair all pulled over my ears with silver combs and 
look at the men without seeing them, and take them 
all away from Mamasha. I shall try. Yalery says 
Alixe doesn’t try. Yalery says they just flock. I 
wonder if they will flock when I’m big. There was 
one very queer thing about Harry Ware. He called 
Charles Monsieur; Misshure! so! Yalery said that 
was because he was a outsider. What is a outsider, 
Mr. Quentin? He said, I mean Harry Ware, that 
my Uncle Bruno was probably the worse thing that 
ever happened. I don’t know exactly what Harry 
Ware meant, Mr. Quentin; but you know how I hate 
my Uncle Bruno, and it seemed to me as if I thought 
as he did.” 

“ Where did this refined young gentleman live when 
he was at home? ” asked Quentin. 

“I don’t know; but I know he said that at his place 
they had a long fall and a late freeze-up. What is a 
fall, Mr. Quentin? ” 


222 THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“He meant autumn,” said Quentin. “I say that, 
too. We always say it in America.” 

“Are you an American?” asked Gartha, with a 
dawning look of horror in her eyes. 

“Yes. What of it?” 

“Why—why—I thought they were all the very 
dreadfulest people. Quelquechose abominable! 
When once I asked Marie Monrouge why Americans 
acted so, she just said, 4 Q’est la race! ’ Harry Ware 
showed me a ring Mamasha gave him. It was-” 

“ I am not interested in Mr. Ware’s-” 

“ A twisted sort of chain, with dark blue stones in 
it.” 

(So that was the reason why Madame’s pretty fin¬ 
ger was unadorned with the sapphire ring that she 
had slipped off his finger in playful mood on the sands 
one bright day and had forgotten to return.) 

“ I asked Harry Ware to give it to me, but he said 
he would have hocked it long ago, but that the old 
girl would raise Hail Columbia. What is it to 
hock-” 

“ Had you any idea whom he meant by 4 the old 
girl ’ ? ” asked Quentin drily. 

44 Yalery said it was sa faute. He said she had no 
discrim—oh, well—well—n—no—well, yes, a lit¬ 
tle,” thus stammering, as Quentin fixed her with 
his eye, where she saw disapproval. She changed 
the subject hurriedly. 44 And then Monsieur le Mau- 
rier came. I do not know where Mamasha got him. 
Valery said at Treport. He said he thought Mamasha 
was a little ashamed of him before you. You know 
who I mean, Mr. Quentin, the one Lord Eldon said 
about, 4 The third Napoleon, by Jove! ’ I do not 
like that Monsieur le Maurier. Je suis bien fache 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 223 


contre Monsieur le Maurier. He eats of clieese with 
the fork.” 

44 Do you always'liave as excellent reasons for your 
likes and dislikes of people? ” 

Gartha nodded. Gartha’s words had recalled to 
Quentin’s mind the little gentleman with the waxed 
moustache and the Roman nose, whom he had at once 
thought the very counterpart of the Third Napo¬ 
leon. 

44 Don’t you remember? That was the evening that 
Alixe wore her diamonds and Monsieur le Maurier 
exclaimed, 4 Mon Dieu! Madame la Duchesse a les 
manieres et la taille d’une Imperatrice! ’ When I 
told Mamasha, she sent me to bed. I usually have to 
me couclier, depart for my bed—I mean, for those 
others—them remarks. Then, the next morning he 
came when I was alone in the ruins, and how he did 
put to me the question.” 

44 Put questions to you! What about? ” 

“ Oh, nom de Dieu! I know not exactly. I re¬ 
member that he asked me about you-” 

“About me?” returned Quentin in astonishment. 
Gartha nodded. 44 He said, 4 Were you very inti¬ 
mate with my Uncle Bruno, and did you help him 
with his chemicals? ’ And I said, 4 God forbid! ’ ” 

44 There was no necessity for such extravagant de¬ 
nial as that. You might just have said-” 

44 1 wanted him to understand once and for all the 
days that you were no friend of my Uncle Bruno. 
You know how I hate my Uncle Bruno. Why, even 
Alixe knows all about it. Then he asked me about 
Robert Halle; more about him than any one. I made 
out as bad a case against Robert Halle as I could. ” 
“What case could you make out against Father 


224 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


Halle? ” asked Quentin, laugliing in spite of liimself. 
“I am sure he has always been very good to you.” 

“Oh, oui, tres poli, but I do not like his ways,” 
answered Gartha. “ I told Monsieur le Maurier that 
he had strange men coming to see him, men who are 
not of our condition, gens de la basse classe; that once 
I viewed him behind the mill talking with a very bad 
looking person and taking a parcel of him.” 

“That is nothing against him,” argued Quentin. 
“Many people look bad who are not bad.” 

“ Monsieur le Maurier gave me a box of sweets and 
promised more when he came again. Candied fruits 
of Potin. Yes, he is but an epicier, that I know; but 
those are the things that I like best of tout Paris. 
And when he left, he beckoned to me this way, ‘ Come 
here! Come here! ’ ” Gartha crooked her little 
brown finger and beckoned to her imaginary double. 
“And he said, 4 Now all of us two-’ ” 

“We two-” 

“ We two have a secret together. Be sure you find 
out all that the priest does, and do not tell any one 
but me, Jean le Maurier.” 

“And this is how you keep your promise,” Quentin 
laughed again. “Don’t be afraid, I will not tell; but 
I think it a very strange thing that a gentleman should 
come here ostensibly to visit your—ahem!—to visit 
Madame, and ask you to spy upon her friends. Did 
you tell her? ” 

“No, but I told Valery, and he said Mr. Le Mau¬ 
rier was probly a emissry of the Archbishop.” 

“ So your father knows? ” 

“ Yes, and Alixe. And Alixe said to Mamasha that 
Monsieur le Maurier should never come to the Abbey 
again, and Mamasha said that Alixe was jealous with 


THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 225 


her. Just as if Alixe could not get them with the 
crook of her little finger. That is what Yalery said.” 

“ So that is the way you keep people’s secrets! I 
must be careful how I trust you.” Gartlia’s lip 
drooped, which, Quentin seeing, did his best to reas¬ 
sure her by a kinder tone. “ And what did Madame 
say to all this? ” 

“ Who? Mamasha? Oh, she did not care so much 
as we have thought. You see by that time Alixe had 
come along, and Monsieur le Maurier had forgotten 
all about Mamasha. He came just after Mamasha 
said, ‘That is the last of Henry Ware.’ Do not let 
her know I told you, Mr. Quentin! I do get so many 
scoldings.” The child sighed. “But I am glad 
Bobert Halle has gone. I do hate him with his long 
dress and snaky eyes.” 

“ Gone? ” said Quentin. 

“I have not seen him since before yesterday,” said 
Gartha. 

“ Don’t you want to go for a walk with me? Come! 
Let us go for a little run up the hill.” 

Gartha immediately arose, saying, “Yes, and I’ll 
show you where my squirrels are, a tree just the 
other side of the glade. Tout pres, tout pres! Ah, 
bah! that French again! ” She began to descend the 
narrow little steps. “ Do you know where the Weasel 
is, Mr. Quentin? ” 

“I didn’t know you had a weasel,” said Quentin, 
as he sprang down from the top of the wall. “ You 
see that I got down the quickest after all! What a 
narrow little staircase! ” 

“ Marie Monrouge says that a Beligious made that 
stair. She got out and builded it in a single night, 
all to go off with a nobleman, a marquis who was in 

15 


226 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


love of her.” Quentin raised his eyes to the stair¬ 
way. 

“I don’t think she could have laid those stones,” 
he said. “ Certainly not in a single night.” 

“ And the idea of leaving the warm bed and steal¬ 
ing out to build h wall to go away with a nobleman. 
Noblemen are dreadful vauriens. I never saw any 
noblemen but my Uncle Bruno, and Alixe’s duke, 
and I never saw him.” 

“Lord Eldon,” suggested Quentin. 

“ Yes, and the Lord Eldon. Valery says the higher 
the title the deeper the game. He says that you can 
never reckon without your hostess at Abbaye de 
Bref. What is it to reckon without your hostess, 
Mr. Quentin?” 

“I don’t think I ever heard exactly that expres¬ 
sion, Gartha.” 

"Si je ne me trompe. I would not hesitate to 
build a stairway to escape with you, ” said Gartha, 
looking up frankly into Quentin’s eyes and squeezing 
his hand with her grimy one, “and I’m sure I would 
be more than willing to escape with his Emnunce. 
You know, the Archbishop. So far I think you two 
have been my only lovers.” 

Gartha said these words with a very lofty air. 
She added: “ When I told Valery, he laughed till he 
was very red. Oh! of a rougeur, and he said that I 
could not expect to rival Mamasha at my age, that she 
was much younger than I was in every way, and that 
she had done for you both. What had she done for 
you both? ” 

Quentin did not appear to hear this very pointed 
question. He was gazing at the far distant hills. 
They were now at the little door in the wall. Not 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 227 


wishing to reply lie pretended to busy himself with 
the hasp of the gate. 

Gartlia went to a crevice in the wall and took there¬ 
from a key. “You must lock it on the outside,” she 
said. Then she stood uncertain, just within the 
doorway. “You didn’t tell me where the Weasel is, 
Mr. Quentin.” 

“The weasel? I didn’t know you had a weasel. 
Where do you keep him? ” 

“The Weasel,” said Gartlia. speaking very slowly, 
and with extreme emphasis, “ was sitting on the ter¬ 
race an hour ago. Elle est caracterisee de la maniere 
suivante. She has a grey moustache and eyes of the 
ferret. She does not wear garters, and her stockings 
is always fallen down. She has a tooth fastened on 
a peg, and spits when she talks, she makes very poor 
daubs, Yalery says, and her first name is Mademoi¬ 
selle.” 

Quentin turned his back again and looked up the 
hill. 

“ Les petites San Gene have an English miss. I 
wish that I, too, could have an English miss. Ma- 
masha says that Mademoiselles are the meilleur 
marclie, but why should I have the education of the 
meilleur marche when Yalery has so much African 
money? An English miss will cost the more, but 
she will remain an English miss.” 

“I should think it extremely likely,” said Quentin. 

“And where was Mademoiselle? ” 

“Mademoiselle,” he said, in as steady a voice 
as he could command, “is sitting on the terrace 
with the Baroness. She has been very busy paint- 
ing.” 

“Oh, yes! Do I not know? She is making the 


228 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


dry wash. Yalery says that it is the only wash of 
which she knows something.” 

"I don’t believe she will miss you for a little 
while,” said Quentin. “Come, now. Let us see 
who will be at the top of the hill first.” 

“Has you ever seen the Weasel’s garters, Mr. 
Quentin? ” 

“No,” said Quentin, shortly. 

“ If you watch her ankles you will see them. They 
are always down. Yalery says that if you-” Quen¬ 

tin hurriedly locked the door, slipping the key into 
his pocket. 

“Here I go, catch me if you can,” and off he ran, 
putting a stop to he knew not what disclosures. He 
was followed by Gartha, who, bonnetless, her elf- 
locks hanging down over her shoulders, had, at his 
words, started on a quick run toward, then up, the 
wooded slope. Once fairly on the way Quentin lagged 
behind. When Gartha became tired, she turned to 
see him, lying, apparently exhausted, beneath one of 
the trees which grew on the hillside. When the child 
was rested, and started on again, her big companion 
raised his long form from the ground and strode 
slowly after her, dragging his feet as if this steep 
climb was more than he had bargained for. 

“You’ll get there before me, Gartha,” he called 
after her. 

Gartha had reached the crest of the hill. She was 
standing still at the root of a tree, her manner one of 
secrecy and intense excitement. 

“H- u-u-sh,” she whispered. Then she beckoned 
violently, at the same time sending another low 
“ Hush! ” down the hill. 

Quentin, to humor her, advanced with a great show 


THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 229 


of caution. When he reached the place where she 
had halted, she, from her eminence on a protruding 
root, laid her arms upon his shoulders and whispered 
in his ear: 

“ There’s a little nest of squirrels over there on the 
other side of the glade—p’tit, p’tit, p’tit! More of 
interest than les cochons de lait. The little pigs 
of milk, you know. If we tiptoe, we may see 
them.” 

So Quentin tiptoed as in duty bound, and soon the 
two were in the open circle, and walking as noise¬ 
lessly as possible toward the further slope which 
stretched downward into another valley. Gartlia held 
Quentin by the hand. 

“ C’est la-bas, just where you see that hole enorme— 
enormous,” corrected Gartha, halting and pointing 
to the base of an old tree a short distance down the 
hill. Then again she began to creep along on the 
tips of her toes, and Quentin followed in much the 
same manner. As they came out from behind a gi¬ 
gantic oak upon the steep brow of the hill, they per¬ 
ceived, just below them, not the squirrels, little or 
big, but two men, who had their backs toward this 
pair of friends. As Quentin came within earshot, he 
heard one of them say: 

“ That last clock-work was defective, very! The 
count does not know why, but he is not at all satis¬ 
fied with it. He has not heard that it has done what 
he expected.” 

The speaker had his back to the pair. He was 
dressed in a long black coat which reached to his 
heels, and he wore a black felt hat. The second 
man, who was standing looking up the hill, and fac¬ 
ing Quentin, was dressed in the garb of a workman. 


230 THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


He returned a quick answer; liis manner was rough, 
and the tone verged on impertinence: 

“ The Monsieur knows that I must get paid for my 
work. That last bit took me all of three days to put 
together. If Monsieur le Comte does not know how 
to put it together, that is not my fault. If Monsieur 
le Comte would employ me regularly at the chateau, 
I could have done the matter more satisfactorily. 
With all Monsieur le Comte’s money I should have 
had an automobile finished long ago. It seems to 
one who understands it that it takes a long time for 
these Messieurs to get one machine finished.” 

“Be silent,” said the priest, raising his voice. 
“ Here is your money. You will have to be more 
particular about the next bit, or you will get no more 
orders.” The black sleeve was outlield and some 
notes passed from one hand to the other. Gartha, 
who was still watching for her squirrels, finger on 
lip, paying little attention to the men, stepped, for 
all her intended caution, on a dry stick. It cracked 
with loud warning. The black-coated man turned 
suddenly and disclosed to view the angry face of 
Father Halle. 

“ Gartha! ” he exclaimed in a violent tone, “ what 
are you spying on me for? ” 

“There! They’ve gone into their hole, Mr. Quen¬ 
tin. Why could not you keep still, Bobert Halle? 
Yalery says that you have always been a spoil-sport. 
Why cannot you be sage—good, I mean, just for 
once, and let me show to Mr. Quentin my squirrels? ” 

“ You are teaching the child to become as deceitful 
as the rest of you,” said the priest, looking upward 
at Quentin, his eyes ablaze with anger. “And so 
you, too, are spying on me again? ” 


THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 231 


“I am sure that if you recall the frankness of 
Gartha’s speech you cannot accuse her of being de¬ 
ceitful toward you,” said Quentin in answer, “and 
as for me, no one was further from my thoughts. 
Why you should be ashamed of being found in such 
close communication with such a very disreputable 
looking gentleman, I am at a loss to imagine. His 
looks show him to be as crafty as you are yourself. 
And the way in which he is stuffing your latest bribe 
into his pocket proves plainly that you have some¬ 
thing to hide, both of you.” Quentin spoke these 
words sharply. He spoke at a venture. He had no 
positive knowledge or even suspicion that anything 
was wrong with regard to Halle’s meeting with the 
mechanic, who, in fact, had an honest enough face, 
but he had grown tired of the insolence of this priest. 
The sudden extreme pallor that overspread Halle’s 
face proved that the shot had told. He stood there 
irresolute, looking first at Quentin and then at the 
workman. 

“ Do you understand what this gentleman is say¬ 
ing?” he asked. “He accuses me of giving you 
a bribe, and you of taking one. It is not within 
my priestly office to chastise him, but I will pay 
you twice as large a sum to-morrow as I have just 
handed you if you will pitch him down the hill 
yonder.” 

The workman, a brawny fellow, short and thick¬ 
set, glanced from Quentin to the priest in astonish¬ 
ment. He could understand nothing of the antag¬ 
onism displayed on both sides. 

Quentin burst into a laugh. There was a sneer in 
it which he made as pronounced as possible. “ Let 
him try it. Let him try it,” he said. “How many 


282 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


human beings your bribes liave injured, Mr. Halle, 
I am at a loss to conjecture; but if you imagine that 
I am to be the next victim, you have reckoned without 
your host.” 

At these random words, Halle, to Quentin’s aston¬ 
ishment, turned on him fairly beside himself with 
fury. He trembled in every limb. “ Seize him! ” he 
shouted. “ Seize him! I say. This liar, this per¬ 
jurer, this defamer of men a thousand times more 
honest than himself.” 

Quentin burst into an enraging laugh. He was, 
suddenly, so incensed against the priest that it was 
with difficulty that he restrained himself. 

“ So the cap fits! ” he said. “ It is strange with 
what alacrity you put it on, Mr. Halle.” The work¬ 
man stood wavering. 

<£ Come on! ” said Quentin, in a voice in which he 
strove in vain to preserve a quiet tone. <£ Come on! 
They won’t recognize you when I have finished with 
you, and then I will send this precious son of the 
church to bear you company.” 

“Do you hear him, Guerin? Do you hear him? ” 
screamed the priest, foaming at the mouth in his 
rage. “Will you allow a priest of the church to 
stand here and take the insults of this foreigner? 
You that I saw once fell an ox, and with one blow! 
What are you afraid of? At him! At the heretic! 
No matter what happens, I will absolve you.” 

Quentin leaned against a tree. “ So you will ab¬ 
solve even the crime of murder, should it go so far,” 
he said. 

“ Why don’t you give him the coup yourself, Rob¬ 
ert Halle?” called Gartlia. “There are two of you. 
I have heard His Grace to say that you belong to our 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 233 


church no longer. You may. strike, now that you 
are not more a priest in holy orders.” 

Halle took a step forward toward the child, but 
Quentin fearing what he might be tempted to do in 
his unreasoning rage, thrust Gartha behind the tree. 

"Back, back!” he said threateningly to Halle. 
“ Men do not war on little children, even if they be 
dishonored priests.” 

By this time Halle’s subordinate, seeing some sort 
of show of courage on the part of the priest, had 
thrown his coat to the ground, and was advancing 
with threatening eye, upward over the few feet of 
ground | which separated himself and Quentin. 

“ Come on! ” called Quentin, bristling for a fight. 
Not knowing what hidden strength the man might 
possess, "Runback,” he called to Gartha, "and stand 
on the further edge of the glade, and when they have 
killed me between them, run down and tell them at 
the Abbey. Here! wait a minute. You will need the 
key.” He tossed it to her, laughingly, and Gartha, 
who had been growing round-eyed and pale, joined 
him in his laugh. 

“Robert Halle,” called Gartha, as she backed 
slowly across the green circle, " if you know what 
is good for you, run! Run, as if His Grace was after 
you! ” 

Newly stung by this taunt, Halle made a quick 
dart toward Quentin and tried to grapple with him. 
Quentin allowed him to come close, and then with 
a grip that is well known to wrestlers he seized upon 
the priest, and with a dexterous movement swung the 
lank figure over his head. The priest fell heavily to 
the ground and lay there quite still. Guerin seeing 
his chief fallen, lying quite motionless, stole sneak- 


234 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


ingly to the place where his coat was lying, picked it 
up and ran quickly down the slope. Gartha began 
to walk away without even so much as a look at her 
prostrate foe. 

“You’ve killed Robert Halle,” she called over her 
shoulder to Quentin. “ Je m’en bats 1’oeil.” 

“He is not killed,” said Quentin, and remembering 
the look that had come over Halle’s face but a mo¬ 
ment since at some random words of his, he added: 
“ Before he dies, he will have the opportunity to think 
of those whom he has sent before him.” 

The eyelids of the priest trembled. He straight¬ 
ened his body, then sat up. He felt of one arm, then 
of the other, then of each leg, his knees, his ankles. 

“Espece de type!” ejaculated Gartha, looking 
scornfully at the priest. 

“ Gartha! 

“ Marie Monrouge says it! She says all—tout le 
monde says it in the quartier,” and then, looking 
again at the priest, “ espece de sale Frangais! ” 

“ Nothing of the kiud that you can say harms the 
priest,” said Quentin dryly. 

“ I suppose that you would say that it does me the 
harm. Au contraire, Monsieur Quentin, it does me 
much of the good.” 

“ Very well, come away! ” 

“There is nothing broken,” said Quentin. “I had 
no intention of killing you, but be careful, please, 
how you attack me in the future. I shall not let you 
off so easily the next time. Come, Gartha.” 

The priest raised himself and stood upright. He 
turned toward Quentin. His eyes glared. They 
shone like balls of fire. He stretched forth his hand 
toward the two, and then began to pour from his lips 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 235 


a string of curses more frightful than any to which 
Quentin had ever listened. 

“Cease!” Quentin shouted! “You shall not utter 
such vile words before this child. Were your anath¬ 
ema delivered from the high altar it would not affect 
me, for I should still consider its source, but this 
child is of the church which you pollute, and I will 
not allow you to foul her ears with language which is 
fit only for the slums. If you have forgotten what is 
due to your once upright manhood, you shall remem¬ 
ber that which is due to the daughter of the house 
where you have been for many years a pensioner.” 

“Yes,” said Gartlia, nodding her head commend- 
ingly, and speaking very fast, with much appearance 
of consciousness, “ and I will tell Alixe that you raved 
and swored and hurled curses and said sacre, and 
lots of other bad words. It mortifies me very much, 
Robert Halle, to see you very rude before the gentle¬ 
man that I am to marry some day.” 

“ Little fool! ” snarled the priest. “ So he flatters 
you that way, does he? ” 

“And if you are an unfrocked priest,” said Gartha, 
holding tightly to Quentin’s hand and backing off the 
while as she watched Halle warily, “ why do you not 
take off that long ‘ black ’ woman’s costume and show 
your legs like other of the men? That coat covers up 
the behind part of you, but in front you are still play¬ 
ing priest.” After Gartha had made the sarcastic in¬ 
quiry and appended statement, she ran, pulling Quen¬ 
tin after her. “ Now, ” she said, “ I am going to the 
Abbey to tell Alixe.” 

At the name of Alixe, repeated in a cooler moment, 
Halle shivered, turned away, and descended the hill, 
following the path which the mechanic had taken. 


236 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


Quentin and Gartlia watclied him for a moment, then 
crossed the glade and skirted the slope which led to¬ 
ward the Abbey. 

"Now, Gartha,” said Quentin, "don’t say anything 
about all this. It will only annoy your aunt, and she 
seems to have enough to trouble her just now. If you 
can prevent her having any more, I think you will.” 

“ Well,” returned Gartha, "I go to think over that. 

If Alixe does not come between me and you-” 

"You and me.” 

" —You and me,” repeated Gartha obediently. " I 
cannot see why you want me to put you at the first, 
I may—• You were my discovery. Now was you 
not-” 

"Were you not? ” 

" Were you not, Mr. Quentin? ” 

"Or were you mine, which? ” 

" And if Bruno wants to pay a man some money, 
why must Robert Halle meet him, that ouvrier, over 
there in that lonely place, to pay him? And why did 
he think we were spying upon him? Seigneur Dieu! 
I was never so disappointed. Espece de type! ” 
"Don’t say that, Gartha.” 

" Marie Monrouge says it and la Mere Monrouge 
also. Do you know la Mere Monrouge, Mr. Quentin, 
and le Pere Monrouge? He was living in an atelier 
in the Quartier Latin when he was young. The Mere 
Monrouge, she gives me the gateaux.” 

As Gartha chattered, her talk half heard by Quen¬ 
tin and receiving random answers, his thoughts were 
much like those expressed so plainly by the child 
herself. He was at a loss to understand the secrecy 
preserved by Halle and his master—for that St. Au- 
bin was so, was quite evident to him now. As 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 237 


Quentin walked lie pondered. There seemed to be a 
profound mystery pertaining to the putting together 
of all their machinery. In the first place they called 
them chemicals, the materials with which they 
worked, and their conversation was constantly of auto¬ 
mobiles. If St. Aubin was engaged in the invention 
of an automobile, why should he be so mysterious 
about receiving the various parts of the apparatus? 
Why should he pay his workman in this underhand 
manner? Why should not the different bits of motive 
power come to the chateau openly? They might be 
enclosed in boxes which could be opened in St. Au¬ 
bin’s own chambers, the east rooms of the chalet. 
And if a workman had completed a portion of the ma¬ 
chinery, why should he not be paid by a draft or note 
at the chateau itself? All this appearance of secrecy 
had set Quentin thinking deeply, and caused him to 
feel that there must be some occult knowledge which 
St. Aubin was determined should be kept from all but 
his tool, the priest. He reasoned and argued for and 
against in his mind, and finally found that the only 
conclusion on which he could decide definitely was 
that the whole thing was a pretence on St. Aubin’s 
part. He was simply wasting his wife’s fortune in 
riotous living in Paris, and his long absences meant 
that, no more, no less. So long as he could pretend 
to be at work on some wonderful invention, the 
money, and plenty of it, would be forthcoming; but 
should Alixe discover that which Quentin felt certain 
must be the fact, she would cease the lavish and gen¬ 
erous expenditure which was, he had heard, begin¬ 
ning to tell upon her income. 

As Quentin came to this conclusion, he had reached 
the road at the bottom of the hill. Gartha handed 


238 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


liim the key, for they were now standing before the 
little door in the wall. 

“ There is just one thing I wish to ask you, Mr. 
Quentin, before we part,” said Gartha, looking up 
from her lowly height. He, in turn, looked down 
inquiringly. “Would you mind telling me your 
name, your first name? ” 

“Telling you my first name? No, certainly not. 
It’s John.” 

Gartha’s face fell. “Oh!” she said, “John!” 
There was silence for a moment, or as long as Gartha 
would allow it to remain unbroken. Quentin un¬ 
locked the door in the wall and entered, Gartha fol¬ 
lowing. He then closed and locked the door, giving 
the key to the child, and pushed the bolt in place, 
thus doubly securing this way of ingress; and then 
Quentin, who had been conscious of a discontented 
murmur, heard her say: “Why can you not? Do 
you not hear me, Mr. Quentin? Why can you not? ” 

“Why can’t I what, Gartha? ” 

“ Ah, nom de Dieu! It is to repeat again! Why, 
be rechristened, I am asking you. You might let my 
Emnunce do it. He did it to the Countess Blan- 
dina’s twins.” Gartha spoke as if she were advising 
vaccination. “I wish—I wish, Mr. Quentin, it was 
another name than John. How would you like Al¬ 
phonse, or Anatole? I once heard Mamasha say 
there was not much sentiment about the name of 
John.” 

“She is right!” assented Quentin promptly. 
“There isn’t.” 

“ It was once when she had a letter from England, 
a little while before you came. Mamasha read that 
letter, and she folded it, and began to put it in her 


THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 239 


dress up here, so; and then she thought better things 
of that, and she opened her little black bag, and put 
it in the bag. Mamasha looked sad—I was almost 
unhappy for her. She looked away; over there.” 

"To the hills? ” asked Quentin. 

" No, no; much, much further, as if she was look¬ 
ing the whole globe round; and then she sighed, like 
this.” Gartha gave a heart-rending sigh. "And she 
said, Mamasha did: ‘ There is not much sentiment 
about the name of John.’ ” 

By this time Gartha had replaced the key in the 
crevice in the wall, and was skipping along by Quen¬ 
tin, holding his hand fast in hers. 

" You might be named Anastasius, after His Grace; 
or Patrick Michael, after my Grandfather Valery.” 
The two friends ascended the stone steps at the end 
of the terrace and passed under the chalet windows. 
Had one been looking out from the chalet or the cha¬ 
teau they might have seen this strange pair stop un¬ 
derneath the great tree, and, had they watched closely, 
they would have seen something pass from the hand 
of Quentin to that of his little charge. 

"There! That’s settled,” said Gartha, looking 
round to see who might be listening. “ The Weasel’s 
gone, Mr. Quentin,” she added, as if she were ex¬ 
plaining the habits of a denizen of a zoological garden. 

There was a ring at the gate. Pierre Monrouge 
opened it at the summons, and Madame entered with 
Lord Eldon. Madame looked happy; one might say, 
with more truth, successful. Lord Eldon’s face was 
flushed more than usual, his eyes were shining. 

"Or you might be named Valery, after my father,” 
said Gartha, resuming her first subject rather ab¬ 
ruptly. She held Quentin’s hands with both of hers, 


240 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


and jumped up and down. "Hilary Yalery, that 
would be a lovely name for you.” 

“Or Alibone Crackibone,” supplemented Madame, 
who had come up to them just in time. “ Have you 
had a pleasant afternoon, my friend?” She came 
close to Quentin, pushing Gartha ever so slightly 
aside as she did so, and looked up at him from 
under the fall of dentelle de soie, her eyes flashing 
through the snaky embroidery depicted upon the veil. 

“I have missed you,” said Quentin, looking down 
at her, then turning to gaze with a jealous stare after 
Lord Eldon’s back. 

“ You dear! ” said Madame. As a far door closed 
upon the rejuvenated Lord Eldon, she took Quentin’s 
hand affectionately in hers. “You dear!” she re¬ 
peated. Gartha walked away, hunching up her shoul¬ 
ders one after the other and shaking her skirts from 
side to side with great evidence of anger and con¬ 
sciousness. 


XXY. 


Alixe sat at her farther window, gazing abroad on 
the distant view. Her hands were lying listlessly in 
her lap, as she looked beyond the abbey wall and 
across the meadows where the sunny river tinkled 
through the valley, her eyes fixed upon the everlast¬ 
ing hills. Her head was listlessly down-drooped, her 
lashes were wet. There was a knock at the door. 

“I cannot see any one,” called Alixe. 

“What, not me? Not your own Gartha? Tu me 
trompes, Alixe. Oh, dearest, mon ame, petit cliou! 
Ouvrez-moi ta porte. I have something—oh! but of 
importance of the greatest. It is a secret just yet 
between all the two of us—me and you.” As Gartha 
said these words, she pounded with her little fist on 
the door of the Abbess’s room. 

Alixe arose at once. She brushed her handker¬ 
chief across her eyes, went to the door, and opened 
it. Gartha was inside in a moment, and Alixe closed 
the iron barrier with a necessary clang, and put up 
the heavy worn chain. 

“ Dear little Gartha! Dear little girl! I have been 
longing to see you. Where have you been that you 
did not come to see Alixe? ” She stooped and placed 
her arms around the bony little shoulders. They 
seemed to shrink to nothing at her touch. She kissed 
the child, and rising, led her to the open window. 
“ Where have you been? ” she repeated, as she seated 
herself and took Gartha up on her lap. 

16 


242 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 

“ I have been taking a promenade a deux up in the 
hills, with my latest and truly lover, Alixe,” said 
Gartha seriously, turning and looking her straight in 
the eyes—of the pair, one could not have told whose 
gaze was the most straightforward and childlike. “ I 
want you to promise me something. Will you? ” 
And then, without waiting for reply and talking very 
fast, fingering the laces about Alixe’s shoulders the 
while, “ I want you to promise me never to come be¬ 
tween me and John? ” 

“ John? John who? ” asked Alixe, a smile flooding 
her face at the airs of this comical child. 

“ Quentin, John Quentin. Did you not know that 
was his nom de bapteme? What is the matter? 
Have I hurt you, Alixe? That would touch me with 
compunction. How you started! We are fiances, 
me and John Quentin. My first love was my Em- 
nunce, but Yalery has—has—deconcerte me much. 
He says that his bride is the church—my Emnunce, I 
mean. Do you think the next best one is John 
Quentin? How you jump, Alixe! What is the mat¬ 
ter? Are there pins in my frock? They will give 
one almost a blessure mortelle. Marie Monrouge 
said once there was une grande Princesse, and there 
was a pin in her little girl’s dress, and it had the 
poison upon it, and it gave her a coup and killed her.” 

“ There are other stings than pins, Gartha. What 
do you say Mr. Quentin’s name is? ” 

“ John.” 

“ Who told you? ” 

“He did. I asked him. Of course I could not 
marry with a man if I did not know his name. Sup¬ 
pose we were at the wedding, you and John Quentin, 
and me and Yalery and the Archbishop, and I should 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 243 

begin to say, ‘I, Gartha Yalery, take you’—and then 
I should have to give him an oeillade, quick, like 
this, and say in a whisper, ‘What did you say your 
name is, young man? ’ That would be of an awkward¬ 
ness most extreme.” 

“Yes, it would be very trying,” assented Alixe. 
“ Well, and what more? ” 

“Well, then, after he told me, my face fell.” 

“Did it?” said Alixe, laughing. “How do you 
know that? ” 

“ Faces always fall in the stories Mademoiselle reads 
tome; and I said, ‘I should like you to be—re—bapt’ 
—what shall I say, Alixe? ” 

“Rechristened, I suppose you mean.” 

“Yes, rechristened, after his Emnunce, Anasta- 
sius.” 

“His Grace, you mean.” 

“His Grace and my Emnunce,” laughed Gartha. 
“As I was coming up the stairs, Alixe, I thought of 
something else. You see, we might have children. 
I should prefer three girls and three boys. Then 
they could be named Emnunce, Anastasius, and 
Hilary; and the girls could be named Alixe, Gartha, 
and Allaire, after my little mamma.” 

“You must not talk so freely, Gartha. It is not 
customary. I hope you never will to Mr. Quentin or 
any one else.” Alixe looked grave. “You must 
never, never do it.” 

“I have not had the time,’’answered Gartha. “I 
have only been fiancee about seven minutes. I do 
not really know whether John Quentin re—relizes it 
yet.” Here Gartha changed her position to one that 
was most uncomfortable, her elbow resting on one 
knee, which was drawn up to meet it, her thumb hold- 


244 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


ing up lier cliiu, her forefinger resting prominently 
on her little brown cheek. A very large ring, which 
held a finely cut topaz, wobbled about on the thin 
brown member. At last she sighed in despairing 
tones: 

“You don’t seem to notice anything, Alixe.” 

“Notice what?” 

“Oh! oh! Do turn your head this way. Don’t 
look off the other side of the world. My ring! My 
ring! You do not see it at all.” 

“Your ring? Oh, yes; I do see it now. What a 
very beautiful stone that is, Gartlia. Be very careful 
of it. That is a very handsome ornament; you might 
lose it.” 

“John Quentin did not surround me with con— 
condishuns,” said Gartha proudly. “When I asked 
him for a gage d’amour, he said this was the only 
one he had, and it belonged to an aunt who was dead. 
Would she be my aunt too, Alixe, when we are mar¬ 
ried with each other? He never said another thing, 
or spoke of my losing it. He just trusted me, John 
Quentin did. And he told me another time of a sister 
of his who died. He said she was very beautiful, and 
that he loved her better than anything in the world; 
and when I asked him if she was more beautiful than 
you, he said, ‘No.’ How hot your face is, Alixe. 
Am I making you too warm? Shall I get down, 
Alixe? No? Then let me lay my head down on you, 
so. I am tired. We took a long prom—walk up 
in the hills, me and John Quentin. We went to look 
for those weeny squirrels. We went into the glade 
and a most sickening sight we saw. Quelque-chose 
abominable! ” 

“ What did you see? ” 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 245 


“Instead of pretty squirrels, all of innocence, 
all of beauty, we saw a very much more hateful 
thing, and that was Robert Halle. I do hate him 
dans les derniers replis du coeur.” 

i( Gartha, Gartha! Do not say such things. Rob¬ 
ert Halle here again! Then your Uncle Bruno must 
be here too.” 

“For me, I hope that does not follow,” returned 
Gartha, frankly. “That is what Yalery ermarked 
when I said that one dav. You should have saw-” 

“Seen.” 

“Seen John Quentin throw Robert Halle over his 
head.” 

“Throw Robert Halle over his head! Oh, Gartha, 
what can you mean! ” Alixe started to rise. “ Why 
should he- 

“I mean that,” said Gartha. “It was a fine sight. 
Attendez! Let me get down and show you.” Gartha 
struggled to the floor. “You see we were looking 
for squirrels. I was here and John Quentin was 
there, where the prie-dieu stands. I beckoned him 
so, and said ‘ Hush, 5 and he came tip-toeing along 
just this way,” Gartha suited her actions to her 
words, “ and when we got to the old oak, who should 
we see instead of the squirrels but Robert Halle. 
He was handing some money to an ouvrier. Ah, bah! 
that French! to a working homme—man—and when he 
saw us he turned with an angry glance with much of 
the acces de coRre, and said, ‘ What are you spying 
on me for, Gartha? ’ That made me much ashamed, 
Alixe. It was not very nice to a fiancee, now was it, 
Alixe? ” 

“No,” assented Alixe, who, accustomed as she was 
to Gartha’s quaint mixing of the languages, and her 


246 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


mistakes between the two grammars, always found 
the child’s conversation freshly amusing. 

“ Ecoutez! It is too long to tell, but the two men 
came up the hill to fight John Quentin, at least Rob¬ 
ert Halle came, and the ouvrier started away, and 
when Robert Halle arroached John Quentin, he 
took him in his arms just as a mother takes its babe, 
and tlirowed him over his head.” 

“ Oh! Oh! ” Alixe started up, concern written in 
her face. “It could not be as a mother takes her 
babe, Gartlia. Did Mr. Quentin hurt Father Halle? ” 

“J’espere,” said Gartha in a cheerful tone. “He 
did get up, but possibly some bones are broken, 
though John Quentin said not. He walked down the 
hill, and then I taunted him. Then we walked off 
down our side of the hill, my little hand in John 
Quentin’s, and Robert Halle went on his way, after 
the ouvrier.” 

“ Oh, Gartha, how could you taunt him, poor man! 
What had he done to this—this Mr. Quentin? ” 

“I made some slight ermark about his being an 
unfrocked priest, and still wearing a long, black 
dress, and he went on his path muttering. I should 
not wonder if he had murder in his heart. May I 
play with your bracelet, Alixe?” Gartha climbed 
into the lap of her devoted Alixe. “Why do you 
wear so broad a bracelet? There! I have unclasped 
it. Oh! Oh! Why! How did you get that blue 
mark round your wrist? How ugly it looks, Alixe! 
Is that the clasp of the Mother Abbess who walks 
at night and takes your wrist in her hand, and says—” 
Gartha lowered her voice sepulclirally and looked 
over her shoulder with frightened eyes, “ 4 Come—with 
—me-’ ” 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 247 


“Who tells you those tales, Gartha? I will not 
have it. I have said so many a time.” 

“ Only old Mere Monrouge down at the mill. You 
cannot turn her out. Yalery says she is a fixture, 
fixee. He says she remains avec une fixite remar- 
quable! He says she has not change her po—posi¬ 
tion for three hundred years.” Gartha looked down 
on the purple mark again. She pressed her lips to 
the wrist of Alixe. “Dear Alixe,” she said, “tell me 
how you got it, that mark. It appears as if some one 
pinched you.” 

“It was one of Uncle Bruno’s experiments,” said 
Alixe, then laughed a sad little laugh at her own 
conceit. 

“Did he blow you up again, Alixe? ” asked Gartha 
breathlessly. 

“Yes,” answered Alixe, sadly amused at this play 
upon words, and the situation. 

“And it was sus—sue—you know what I mean, un 
succes? ” 

“No, dear, I do not think it was, this time. I 
think I have finished now—helping Uncle Bruno with 
his experiments.” 

“Ah, bah! How I hate my Uncle Bruno! I never 
could understand Alixe, how you fell so dreadful in 
love of him to marry him. Now, John Quentin is a 
fine man in every respec’, but you are too late for 
him, Alixe. Are you coming down to-night? Oh, 
do, dearest Alixe. It is so tiresome with only Ma- 
masha and Mamasha’s latest. John Quentin has to 
turn his attention to the Weasel, and she rewards him 
by spitting in his face.” 

“ Gartha! Gartha! You must not say such dread¬ 
ful things! They are really too bad. ” 


248 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“ So Mademoiselle ermarked when I ermonstrated 
with her, but I said, £ I am only telling you for your 
own good.’” Gartha’s tone and accent were so ex¬ 
actly like Mademoiselle’s own, when she corrected 
the child, that Alixe laughed in spite of her wish not 
to encourage Gartha. 

“Now, I must hurry, il faut que je parte! John 
Quentin will wonder what detains me. I shall wear 
the pink-ruffled if Marie Monrouge has pressed it. If 
not, then the blue and white that Lord Eldon called 
‘ a dainty little robe. ’ ” 

When Gartha was gone, Alixe walked slowly about 
the room. She had decided, for Gartha’s sake, to 
change her gown and appear at dinner. She rang 
the bell for Nanette, and then she went across the 
room to her wardrobe. In crossing the great space 
her trailing robe rolled some article along with it. 
It made a noise upon the tiled floor. Alixe ceased 
her walk and stooped down. Just upon the edge of 
the rug, caught among the fringe, to which it had 
been drawn by her skirt, lay the topaz ring which 
Gartha had dropped. 


XXVI. 


The picnic passed off more quietly than most pic¬ 
nics do. Usually there is some one person who en¬ 
joys the dissipation of a picnic in the woods, but 
Quentin was surprised to find that the attempt to 
make this one a success resulted in a most dismal 
failure, and but for the apparent enjoyment of Gartha, 
it seemed as if each one regretted his quiet, shady 
seat or room at the Abbey. 

Madame sat most of the day under a tree in desul¬ 
tory conversation with Lord Eldon, giving Quentin 
an occasional glance, as if to say, “You see what 
you have forced me to.” His feelings had undergone 
a change since he had rung the Abbey bell, now 
nearly two weeks ago, and he was quite certain that 
he should never again feel toward her as he had be¬ 
fore the voluntary revelations of Yalery had left so 
unpleasant an impression upon his mind. He did 
not avoid her, that he could not do, as she was his 
hostess, but he was seeing less of her during these 
days, which fact, so contradictory is human nature, 
made him feel somewhat gloomy. It is unpleasant 
to lose one’s faith in a pleasant friend, one who has 
been perhaps somewhat nearer than a casual friend. 
This partial estrangement seemed to cause corre¬ 
sponding joy in the breast of Lord Eldon. 

On the whole Quentin found himself not saddened 
by his approaching farewell to the Abbey. He wan¬ 
dered along by the side of the brook, his rod over his 


250 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


shoulder, his head bent upon his breast, keeping 
pace as nearly as possible with the Rastaquouere. 

“ Shouldn’t wonder in the least if she’d nail him 
yet,” said Yalery, as he stepped into the brook, rod 
in hand. “If there’s one thing that Mamasha values 
more than eternal glory it’s an earthly title. You 
may think that she wants but little here below, but 
I can tell you she wants that little pretty big and 
pretty long. Eldon must be at least twenty years 
older than Mamasha, and she’s no chicken, but then 
he’s got money to burn up, as you Americans say, and 
estates galore. You didn’t encourage the old girl 
sufficiently, I fear, Quentin,” and Yalery gave him a 
sly poke in the region of the ribs with the end of his 
rod. “If I am booked for a new step-papa, I don’t 
see why it couldn’t have been you.” 

“What are you talking of, Yalery dear?” called 
Madame from the seclusion which she and Lord El¬ 
don had chosen. 

“I’ll tell you if you’ll tell me what you are talking 
about,” called back the irrepressible Yalery. “Turn 
about’s fair play, eh?” 

Alixe and Gartha occupied their time in wandering 
in the meadows or on the hillsides, picking flowers. 
When they had found enough, they made them into 
wreaths, which was Gartha’s fancy, and crowned 
Lord Eldon, who was thus made to appear, as he 
probably felt, extremely foolish, and even Yalery sub¬ 
mitted himself to the indignity and was made to look 
like a veritable Bottom, with his jovial face and broad 
smile encircled by a frame of leaves and flowers. 

“Poor Alixe,” said Yalery, his wreath falling un¬ 
becomingly over one eye, “they have ruined her 
nationality among them.” 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 251 


“Her nationality? ” asked Quentin. 

“Yes, what country do you think claims her? ” 

“ I thought her a Russian; but from her fluency in 

French I thought that perhaps-” 

“Most of your people are fluent in French,” said 
Yalery, “more so I find than the English or 
the-” 

“Not to speak of the Irish,” said Quentin, laugh¬ 
ing. “ But what do you mean by my people? Surely 

Madame Alixe—Madame St-” 

“Yes, an American. Her father was a-” 

“A Russian,” said Quentin, “General Petrof- 
sky--” 

“ So Mamasha hasn’t let you into the secrets of the 
prison house, my dear fellow. Well, I am not sur¬ 
prised. She is extremely kittenish, is Mamasha. 
Mamasha’s past, as I have told you, is shrouded in 
mystery. Her first husband, the first she owns to, 
was Alixe’s father. He, number one, was the father 
of my little wife, also.” 

Quentin wondered afterward why he had cared if 
Madame had been possessed in the past of forty 
husbands, and why two were more to be regretted than 
one, but at this time he did not reason with himself. 
He only felt discomforted at Yalery’s repetition. 

“Yes, he was a very good sort,” pursued Yalery, 
“not in the least an outsider. My little wife wor¬ 
shipped his memory. I never saw him, my late la¬ 
mented father-in-law. Alixe scarcely remembers 
him, she was so small when he died. Mamasha re¬ 
tired from the field of conquest for a short time, and 
then she emerged from her lair and went on her man 
hunt again. She lay at the mouth of her cave for a 
while, but the old birds were too shy. She could 



252 THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


never get them to come near enough to sprinkle salt 
on their tails. Then began the race over the length 
and breadth of Europe. Her first desire was a 
Prince. She rose one somewhere down in Rouma- 
nia, I believe. That recalls—” Valery laughed— 
“ her primeval name. Back in the dark ages, before 
she had all those husbands, it was Gordon. Some 
sharp American girl, jealous presumably, discovered 
it, and named her the Gordon Setter. That did for 
her with the Prince, and his bones did not whiten 
round her cave, much! Mamasha tried all sorts of 
bait for all sorts of game. Finally she wandered 
over to Russia, and there she bagged her General, one 
without even a patent of nobility.” 

“No one has a better position than an army officer, 
I suppose,” said Quentin, who listened politely, 
although he had heard much of this before from 
Valery. 

“Yes, if he had been. Don’t know what the deuce 
he was. Whether general luggage-agent or general 
whipper-in to the serfs, when they crossed the 
steppes. At all events, I’ll do him the credit to say 
that he was a kind old party, and as gold or silver or 
some kind of product had been discovered on some 
land of his somewhere, he sold out to the government 
and shook the Tzar. He was very kind to Mamasha, 
and the little girls, as well as to Bruno and Halle. 
They all piled right on to him. It was pretty 
hard on the old man when he found that Mamasha 
had elected him as Director-General of a regular or* 
phan asylum, but Mamasha has no shame, and finally 
the General, simply worn out by the nursery busi¬ 
ness, just laid himself down and died like little Betty 
Pringle. This relieved the situation. Mamasha had 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 253 


now quite a little bit of property. She could go 
where she pleased and pose as an interesting widow 
for the second or third time. My ancient history 
doesn’t go back of Carleton.” 

“Come up here, Valery, and bring Mr. Quentin with 
you,” called Madame from her seclusion upon the 
hillside. There was an anxious note in her voice. 

“In a minute, Mamaslia dear, when I catch this 
one I am after and one more,” called Valery, then 
dropped his voice again. “ She had a very comfort¬ 
able sum, and she could travel about without any very 
great expenditure. She took those girls to all the 
watering-places on the French coast. She threw 
them at every man she saw, but she didn’t have to 
make a cast very often, before I came by. I dropped 
to my little wife at the first throw, and I was never 
sad a day in my life until I lost her.” Valery puffed 
away silently. He did not speak for some time, con¬ 
tenting himself with aimless casts of the fly, careless 
as to whether he succeeded in catching anything or 
not. When he at last spoke his voice trembled and 
his eye was moist. 

“She’s buried up there on the hill, poor little 
Allaire, near the General. Alixe would have it so, as 
soon as she came to live at the Abbey. Little Al¬ 
laire’s memory’s always green with me. Mamaslia 
keeps the General’s memory green by digging the moss 
out of the title. A title’s a big thing until you can 
snatch a bigger one.” Valery shrugged his shoul¬ 
ders toward Madame and Lord Eldon and again 
threw his fly up-stream. 

St. Aubin and Halle, strange personalities at a 
child’s picnic, talked apart. The Baroness and Made¬ 
moiselle embroidered and sketched, Alixe and Gartha 


254 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


occasionally cheering their solitude a deux by a pass¬ 
ing remark, or a stop for a few moments in their 
neighborhood, but the spontaneity and intimacy of 
the house party appeared to be broken up. 

It seemed a relief to every one but Gartha when it 
came time to return home, and the different members 
of the picnic party got into the char-£i-bancs and the 
landau with a sigh of relief, and with no backward 
look at the ground where they had spent most of the 
day. All but Gartha. 

“Alixe,” she said, “I have had a perfectly lovely 
time, so good a time I have not esperienced not since 
quand j’etais gosse.” 


XXVII. 


Quentin did not seek Alixe again. He was to leave 
the Abbey on the morrow; of what use? He sat 
upon his small balcony late into the evening, and 
watched far into the night, but nothing of either the 
natural or supernatural world came to disturb him. 
He arose with the sun. The early breakfast was to 
be a hurried meal, that the departing guests might 
catch their train. Quentin had promised to return 
with Lord Eldon to England; beyond that, he had not 
planned. 

When he had drunk his coffee, listening mean¬ 
while to Madame’s voluble expressions of regret that 
he must leave the Abbey so soon, said in exactly the 
same tone in which he had heard her speak to Lord 
Eldon as they stood under the tree upon the terrace, 
apparently alone, he went to the chateau, to find the 
servants for the purpose of leaving with them that 
generous tip which Americans can never learn is the 
ruin of all foreigners of that class. He passed through 
the salon and into the dining room, but the place was 
empty. He was about to retrace his steps when he 
heard a voice that he knew. It was merely a sound 
that he had heard, but the sound was one of pain, 
and then he caught the words: 

“Do not do that again, Bruno.” The voice was 
that of Alixe. The tone was so decided that he 
waited, irresolute, wondering whether he ought to 
interfere. And then he stood silent, feeling that the 


256 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


time had come when he had the right to listen. The 
next words that he heard were: 

“You will cause me to leave the Abbey, Bruno. I 
will not bear it.” 

Quentin moved toward the open window. His 
footsteps were now heard by those without. 

“ Who is that? ” called St. Aubin. 

Quentin stepped quickly out upon the balcony. 
St. Aubin and Alixe were standing there. He was 
just releasing her wrist from his fingers. As he did 
so, Quentin, whose eyes were everywhere at this 
juncture, saw that the white skin bore a red mark, 
and that she at once clasped the reddened wrist with 
her other hand, whether to hide the signs of vio¬ 
lence, or to soothe the wounded member, he could 
not tell. 

St. Aubin twisted his ugly features into the sem¬ 
blance of a smile. 

“Pardon me,” said Quentin, “I am looking for 
Charles.” 

“Always arriving at the opportune moment, Mr. 
Quentin,” said St. Aubin from between his teeth. 
“Perhaps you heard my wife crying out just now. 
Perhaps you thought it was beauty in distress, call¬ 
ing upon some true knight to deliver her.” 

“I heard voices,” said Quentin, “and came out in 
the hope of finding Charles.” His heart was beating 
tumultuously. He hardly knew what he was doing 
—was saying. He wondered afterward why he had 
not seized St. Aubin as he had the priest, and pitched 
him over the balcony. As he spoke, Alixe passed 
him without a word. She was very pale. Her eyes 
were blazing. Turning his back abruptly on St. 
Aubin, he followed and joined her inside the room, 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 257 

and walked by her side until she had crossed it 
and had passed through the further door. He found 
himself within a square hall from which a flight of cir¬ 
cular stairs ascended. This was a part of the Abbey 
into which he had never been asked to penetrate. She 
took no notice of him, walking so swiftly that he 
could hardly keep pace with her. As she placed her 
foot upon the lower stair— 

“One moment! ” he said, “I wish a word with you, 
before I leave.” 

“ I shall not come down again, Mr. Quentin. What 
is it? ” 

“I am going away this morning,” he replied, 
“within a few moments.” And then, in hurried 
tones, “Promise me that if ever I can help you, you 
will send for me. I will come from the uttermost 
quarter of the earth. Promise me you will—” His 
voice shook so that she could but note his agitation. 
He slipped a card underneath a book lying upon the 
table. “ That is my address. It will always find me, 
‘The Travellers.’ Promise me—” Alixe did not 
look at him, she seemed only impatient at being de¬ 
tained. When she spoke, her voice was as steady as 
his was tremulous. 

“Do not leave it,” she said, “I shall never send. 
Good-by.” 

Without a hand clasp, without another look, she 
vanished up the stairway. He stood there until he 
heard that heavy upper door close upon her. 

“Quentin,” called Lord Eldon, “we shall lose our 
train! Where have you been? ” 

17 


XXYIII. 


“The wedding will come off in November,” Lord 
Eldon liad confided to Quentin as they crossed the 
Channel. “ She’s a dear little woman. Do you 
know, Quentin, I thought at one time that you were 
in my way there, but she assured me that you had 
never-” 

“ Oh, no, never! ” Quentin hastened to assert, with 
perhaps too eager tone; “ not because I do not con¬ 
sider her most attractive, but because—” Quentin 
ceased. Lord Eldon smiled to think how much more 
successful he had been with the charming widow 
than had this stalwart young American. 

“I hope it isn’t the title,” continued the prospec¬ 
tive bridegroom, somewhat distrustfully. “She as¬ 
sures me,” etc., etc., etc., to all of which Quentin 
listened with an acquiescent smile. “I want to pro¬ 
vide a home for her before Bruno makes ducks and 
drakes of all the remains of a once fine fortune.” 

“I thought they were so rich over there,” said 
Quentin. “ Miss Spencer gave me to under¬ 
stand-” 

“Miss Spencer knows absolutely nothing about it,” 
returned Lord Eldon. “When the Duca di Brazzia 
married, he had made a will leaving his wife a large 
fortune, but the second marriage played havoc with 
that. After St. Aubin’s debts were paid, there was 
nothing more than a comfortable living for them, as 


THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 259 


we look at tilings over here. Our poor little friend 
has a difficulty, I fear, in making both ends meet. 
The Duchess has always let care fall upon her poor 
little shoulders, and it still goes on. St. Aubin comes 
whining for money, and Madame gives it to him, at 
his wife’s order. He sees how low the funds have 
fallen, and he is scrambling round to try to make 
something himself. That is certainly commendable, 
but the grand entertainments in Paris last year are 
what has caused the exchequer of the Duchess to run 
so low.” 

“Are you sure there were grand entertainments?” 
said Quentin. “Don’t you think perhaps-” 

“Oh, yes, yes,” interrupted Lord Eldon, “for I 
have been at them, I am ashamed to say, now that 
I know the truth. Taking the whole Armenonville 
place and giving a fete. Asking sixty persons to 
breakfast at the Ritz. You cannot do this for noth¬ 
ing. Taking the Marquis of Alderney’s yacht and 
filling it with people who play nothing but baccarat, 
at which Bruno is a very unlucky player, not to speak 
of the colossal debts that he incurred during his 
cousin’s widowhood, all this is not conducive to pil¬ 
ing up a fortune, as you Americans say. He has 
done some dirty tricks also. I have heard that he 
has had her casket of jewels reset entirely with 
paste.” 

Lord Eldon and his guest arrived at Eldon Towers 
late in the afternoon, and after a change of travel- 
stained garments, Quentin descended the stairs to be 
presented to Lord Eldon’s sister, Lady Alfred Car- 
stairs, and to find a table set with tea and a cheering 
assortment of hot dishes. His thoughts carried him 
back at a bound to that other tea table set within the 


260 THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


walls of the ruined Abbey, a spot which he felt now 
that he had visited for the last time. 

The room was pleasantly filled with people, to 
some of whom Quentin was made known. He looked 
in vain for a familiar face, and was just seating him¬ 
self upon a distant sofa, cup in hand, when his ears 
were greeted with: 

“You dear thing! Where did you come from? 
Lady Alfred never told me that-” 

“I told you that Eldon was bringing a friend, 
Ada,” called Lady Alfred, from her seat at the table, 
as she caught these words pronounced in Miss Spen¬ 
cer’s high-pitched key. 

Miss Spencer seated herself at once by the stran¬ 
ger, taking possession of him, so to speak, with both 
manner and voice. 

“You know I told you we should meet again. 
And to think that you have followed me all the way 
from the Abbey-” 

“Isn’t that what all your adorers do? ” said Quen¬ 
tin gayly, shaking hands with the only person in 
the room whom he had ever seen before. “You can’t 
think how I have looked forward to this meeting, 
Miss Spencer,” said he, in his most flirtatious tones. 
Life was ended for him. Let him make the most of 
the dregs that remained. 

“You dear thing,” said Miss Spencer, “it is nice 
to see you. Did ce cher Bruno succeed in blowing 
you up over there in that dreary old Abbey ? And 
did you fall in love with Alixe, like all the rest of 
the men? Ah! There you are, Lord Eldon. I hear 
great things of you and Mamasha. They say you 
never left her doubly-widowed side by day or-” 

Lady Alfred looked quickly up. She had one son. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 261 


Failing an heir to Lord Eldon, her boy would come 
into the title and the estates. 

“Sugar, Mr. Poncefort?” she said. “What’s that, 
Eldon? Who is it? What did you say, Ada? 
Mamasha? What a remarkable name!” Lord El¬ 
don was very red in the face and very angry all over. 

“If you are speaking of Madame Petrofsky, Miss 
Spencer,” he said, as coldly as his hot anger would 
allow, “ I can only say that she is a very dear friend 
of mine, and I can see no reason why her pet name, 
used only in her own family, should be spoken by 
you here before all these people.” 

“But she’s a dear friend of mine,” returned the 
lively young woman, her tone simulating astonish¬ 
ment. “ I always call her Mamasha, Lord Eldon. I 
call her so to her face. Which I venture to say is 
more than he does,” she whispered in an aside to 
Quentin. “What is it? Has she really hooked him 
at last, as you Americans say? How furious Lady 
Alfred will be? ” Her words implied that Madame’s 
eagerly hunted quarry had been Lord Eldon. What 
man is without a spark of vanity? Quentin felt a 
slight sense of annoyance—although he had not re¬ 
sponded as fully perhaps as was expected of him to 
Madame’s kindness of manner—that any one should 
imagine that the opportunity had not been his had 
he chosen to grasp it. 

Miss Spencer laughed. 

“I see what the trouble is,” she said. “The best 
of men are vain. Mamasha didn’t make advances 
enough. Why, do you know, Mr. Quentin, I really 
thought she heard you say your prayers, and tucked 
you up every night.” This was in whispered tones 
which Lord Eldon sidled near to catch if possible. 


262 THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“ Poor little Mamaslia! She is going to be My Lady 
$t last. Oil! you needn’t take the trouble to deny 
it. I see it in his beaming smile, and his anger at 
my harmless remark.” Quentin remained silent, 
though his vacuous look was almost an affirmation. 

“I think they’re a perfect pack of fools over there 
in that precious Abbey,” continued Miss Spencer, 
turning her back on the others and addressing herself 
exclusively to Quentin. “ Just imagine Alixe giving 
Bruno money to throw away! When I used to re¬ 
monstrate with her she would say with that saintly 
smile of hers, * Poor Bruno! It gives him so much 
pleasure, and he is not as fortunate as most people. 
Then, too, he thinks that a small fortune properly 
invested now will make a large fortune in the future. 
I tell him that I have plenty for both, but Bruno has 
really a great deal of pride.’ That’s Miss Alixe! 
Now, did you ever hear of such an absurdity, Mr. 
Quentin, sending good money after bad? I never 
could understand why Bruno is too good to live on 
his wife’s money. All the other men do. I have 
heard lately that, after paying his debts, she really is 
crippled. The debts were colossal, and now he thinks 
he is going to make it up in some way. I don’t 
think it makes a scrap of difference who has the 
money, do you, Mr. Quentin? Whether he’s Span¬ 
ish, American, bond or free, man or woman.” And 
Miss Spencer nestled confidingly nearer to the good- 
looking American. 

“No,” he said, “I don’t know that it does. What 
do you mean by Spanish, American, bond or free? ” 

“ Oh, it’s only my way of rattling on. That dear 
family over there does require so much explanation. 
Ce cher Bruno is a Spaniard, didn’t you know it? 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 263 


I’ve told you that before, but wliat I say seems to 
make very little impression.” 

“Yes, I’ve heard it, but with the surname of St. 
Aubin? ” 

“ How stupid of you, Mr. Quentin! And why not? 
You may meet any amount of Frenchmen with Ger¬ 
man, Italian, or even English surnames. Your own 
name must have been French. Probably St. Quen¬ 
tin.” 

Quentin admitted the fact. 

“ There! See how careless you Americans are. 
Dropping a handsome prefix like ‘ St. ’ If I had a 
name or a prefix to conjure with, do you suppose that 
I would go about with such a common-place name as 
mine? ” 

“I consider Spencer a very distinguished name,” 
said Quentin politely. 

“Yes, but we don’t belong to that family, you see. 
Now you wouldn’t care at all. You Americans are 
so different to us.” 

“So-” 

“Different. So different to us. What did you 
think I said? ” 

“ I thought you said different from, but it makes 
no difference; I believe grammatical errors are fash¬ 
ionable over here.” 

“ I consider that distinctly saucy, ” said Miss Spen¬ 
cer, moving away. 

“Don’t go,” said Quentin; “come back and tell 
me if you have not heard from the Abbey lately.” 

“I have heard,” said Miss Spencer, “and news 
that will somewhat surprise you, but until you learn 
to behave yourself, and not insult a British subject, 
I shall tell you nothing.” 



XXIX. 


On the following day Quentin tried all means of 
pacification with Miss Spencer, but failed signally. 
It was not until two or three mornings after his con¬ 
versation with her that she thawed sufficiently to 
allow him to sit on the same bench with her, under 
a spreading oak, and revert to the occupants of 
l’Abbaye de Bref. So long as he could not remain 
at the Abbey, he was glad to find himself in a place 
where he could see some one whom he knew, and 
who was interested in its inhabitants. Miss Sj)encer 
considered that several days of banishment of the 
best-looking man in the house was quite sufficient, 
considering that no one else at the Towers thought it 
worth while to snub the stranger; and, seeing that a 
certain Lady Kate found Quentin extremely agree¬ 
able, and that her absences with him on long walks 
about the place were becoming somewhat marked, 
Miss Spencer felt that the time had come to thaw. 
She found, a fact which did not give her any particu¬ 
lar satisfaction, that a word about the Abbey was 
enough to draw him near, and though she was in¬ 
wardly provoked at the thought, she used her bait 
judiciously, so that it came about that Lady Kate, one 
morning, much to her chagrin, saw the two seated 
upon the shady bench, Quentin evidently so engrossed 
that he did not even see her as she passed them by. 
Lady Kate happened to be a young woman of un- 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 265 


bounded curiosity, and the sentence that she caught 
as she walked slowly past Miss Spencer and Quentin, 
did not in the least allay that curiosity. 

“Did you ever discover,” asked Miss Spencer, in 
rather louder tones than were necessary to carry to 
Lady Kate’s listening ear, “what they were doing 
over there in the chalet at night? ” 

“What who were doing?” questioned Quentin in 
turn. “ I lived in the chalet and I was sleeping prin¬ 
cipally.” 

“ I don’t mean you, of course. I know all about 
that, even to Mamasha’s religious training of her 
latest acquisition. I know you said you slept. I 
mean that precious Bruno and his pious assistant, 
that priestly imp of darkness. My room overlooked 
the terrace. It was next to the one Alixe has always 
occupied, the Abbess’s room, you know, with the 
iron doors. I wouldn’t have slept in that bed for an 
American fortune. The most ghostly, ghastly, weird 
thing! It looks like the Great Bed of Ware. Just 
the sort of thing you are shown in the houses where 
Elizabeth stopped, when she made her progresses. 
It had to be large, I suppose, to keep pace with the 
room. That, I believe, is almost the size of the great 
salon. Even in the room they gave me, not such a 
desert waste as the Abbess’s, but big and gloomy 
as a barn, I always had my maid sleep on the 
lounge.” 

“Why?” asked Quentin. 

“As if you didn’t know the stories! Not that I 
ever saw anything, but you know They never come 
to two persons together.” 

“Who?” asked Quentin. 

“Oh, come now,” returned Miss Spencer, with an 


266 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


incredulous look in lier eyes, "you know very well 
wliat I am talking about.” 

“You know the Towers is haunted, don’t you?” 
asked Quentin. 

“Yes, the other wing. I never sleep there. In 
fact, this visiting at swell country places is the most 
wearing process; it’s going to be my death. Now 
don’t you think I’ve fallen off, really? I go to these 
ghostly old houses and never sleep a wink, and the 
consequence is that I’m so sleepy all day that I’m 
dreadfully dull. Just as I get accustomed to my sur¬ 
roundings, and find that They’re not coming to 
frighten me, or that They appear in the other part of 
the house, my time is up, and I have to move on, and 
then it is worse than ever. Come, now! Tell me why 
those lights were burning in broad daylight-” 

“Probably fell asleep and forgot to put them out,” 
said Quentin carelessly. 

“ Yery likely. Now, what do you suppose was the 
reason? ” 

“ The same reason as your own—afraid! ” said he, 
laughing. 

“Nonsense,” said Miss Spencer, “not two of them. 
They were up to some dark and deadly deeds. ” 

“ He always spoke very freely of his chemicals, ” 
said Quentin, who, much as he disliked St. Aubin, 
did not care to discuss his methods with Miss Spen¬ 
cer, after having been a guest of the house where he 
was at least nominal head. 

“Haven’t you any idea?” pursued his questioner. 

Quentin was silent. 

“Not the slightest? ” 

“I can’t see anything so mysterious about it,” said 
Quentin.” “Of course if you were afraid of his ex- 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 267 


periments, you were right to leave the Abbey, but 
Lord Eldon and I remained some days later, and we 
escaped alive, as you see.” 

“He may not have been making experiments at 
all,” acquiesced Miss Spencer. 

“This much I know. Those great carboys that 
came just before you all flew away in such terror 
were filled with St. Evian.” 

Miss Spencer burst into a fit of laughter so shrill 
that Lady Kate, who was talking with the gardener 
in the near neighborhood, started at the sound and 
looked toward the couple. 

. “I believe Harry Ware was right,” said she when 
she could speak. 

“Harry Ware? ” said Quentin inquiringly. 

“ You never saw him. He was there the week be¬ 
fore you came. He was another of dear Mamasha’s 
discoveries. He was full of Americanisms, a perfect 
little cad. How they stood him I do not see.” 

“Gartha thought him charming,” said Quentin. 
He fell to laughing softly, recalling Gartha’s words 
and manner as she repeated the words, “ That is the 
last of Hen—e—ry Ware.” 

“I learned lots of Americanisms from him,” con¬ 
tinued Miss Spencer. “ I am never quite sure what 
the different ones mean, but I think they are lovely 
all the same.” 

Quentin listened, an amused smile upon his lips. 

“ I have been stopping in the house of one of your 
rich Westerners,” she continued, “and he very often 
said that he felt like a busted-up sequence. What is 
a busted-up sequence, Mr. Quentin? ” 

“ I never heard of one. Why didn’t you ask your 
Western friend? ” 


268 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“ Why! He did tell me, but I have forgotten. At 
all events, it is extremely picturesque. Don’t you 
think so? ” 

“I don’t think anything picturesque that I don’t 
understand,” said her listener. 

“ And now it seems to me it was a flush. Not a 
sequence, a flush. A busted-up flush.” 

Quentin shook his head. 

“Oh, come now, Mr. Quentin. Don’t be so seri¬ 
ous. Where were you born? ” 

“Near a little town on the North River.” 

“ The North River? Is that in Canada? ” 

“ I ought to have said the Hudson River. I spoke 
locally.” 

“Oh! Hudson’s Bay?” 

“No, in New York. I am aware that it’s the fash¬ 
ion to know nothing about us over here-” 

“Now that isn’t fair. I may as well say that you 
know nothing about us. Come, now! Tell me the 
counties of England? There! You are silent. Born 
in New York, you say? How can there be a river 
in a city, and also a little town and-” 

“We have a State called New York.” 

“Oh, yes. I have heard so. How large is that? ” 

“A little larger than England.” 

“How you do like to tease one, Mr. Quentin. I 
shall go away.” 

“ It is quite true. I was born in the country near 
the little village. That was our post-office town. It 
is a mile away from our house.” 

“Oh! Not born in the village! You Americans 
come up so suddenly! I thought you might have 
been born in a place like Dillston or Ledley. How 
large was the village? ” 



THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 269 


"About a thousand people.” 

"What were they like? Did you know any of 
them? ” 

“Oh, yes, I know them all.” 

“ Know them? Mercy on me! How terribly dem¬ 
ocratic ! ” 

“Well, not exactly what you would call knowing 
them. Rather, they knew me. I grew up there as 
a lad. I knew every house in the place. I used to 
run into them as a child-” 

" Run into people’s houses? How did you dare? ” 

“ There was no daring about it. They asked me. 
I knew their children. My grandfather owned their 
village, besides another farther on; but of courfee I 
didn’t take advantage of that. They were all my 
friends and were glad to have me come.” 

"Owned two villages!” exclaimed his listener. 
“ How did he come to? ” 

" It was a grant of land given to one of my ances¬ 
tors in 1690, I believe. It was granted by William 
and Mary. The yellow old parchment hangs in my 
grandfather’s hall, queer old signatures, and-” 

"Ancestors!” exclaimed Miss Spencer, “I didn’t 
know you had any over there. ” 

“We can’t help it,” Quentin smiled teasingly. 
"We don’t all believe in either the protoplasm or 
the Darwinian theory. I know we haven’t any rights 
in the way of having ancestors, but we had to de¬ 
scend from somebody, we couldn’t all be liod-car- 
riers, there wouldn’t be hods enough, you see.” 

“Don’t be nasty, Mr. Quentin,” pleaded Miss 
Spencer, settling down again. "I reallyam inter¬ 
ested to learn all about you. I wish you would tell 
me some more Americanisms. Harry Ware told me 


270 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


some more. Oh, yes, I remember one,” and Miss 
Spencer mentioned some words which are seldom 
heard by ears polite. 

“ What queer people yonr friend must know,” re¬ 
marked Quentin carelessly. “Isn’t it a pity that 
while he is there he shouldn’t try to know the best? ” 

“Is it really so bad?” said Miss Spencer aston¬ 
ished. “I thought it was only an Americanism! 
Come, now, don’t be nasty! He did not say that 
your President and Parliament used it habitually, 
but he said-” 

“ Did he tell you anything about the slave States 
of Vermont and about our smearing corn with mo¬ 
lasses and eating it? I’ve heard a tale something 
like that over here; but, come, Miss Spencer, don’t 
let us indulge in unpleasant personalities as regards 
our respective countries. I am sure I am devoted to 
you and yours. Tell me, to change the subject, have 
you heard from your friends across the Channel of 
late? ” 

“Oh, yes,” returned Miss Spencer with a superior 
tone; “ I had a letter from Madame only two or three 
days ago.” 

“And you never told me? ” 

“ Why should I tell you? Besides, we were not on 
speaking terms.” 

“ You mean that you were not. I was always your 
bounden slave. Tell me how things are going at the 
Abbey.” 

Quentin spoke with an assumption of carelessness; 
in reality his heart was thumping violently, and there 
was a rushing sound so loud in his ears that it al¬ 
most drowned Miss Spencer’s reply. 

“The Abbey is closed,” she said. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 271 


“Wliat! Wliat did you say? ” 

"The Abbey is closed.” 

“ Closed? The Abbey is closed? How long has it 
been closed?” 

<£ 01i, it’s been closed since just after you left. 
That very day, I think, or the next. I heard it from 
Mademoiselle. Mr. Yalery has taken Gartlia over to 
see some relatives. Bruno has flown away on one of 
those mysterious trips of his, dear, pretty, playful, lit¬ 
tle bear that he is! That dreadful priest has gone in 
hiding. Mamaslia bundled every one out, neck and 
crop, after you left. The poor old Baroness will 
have to sit in front of Maxim’s now, if she wants to 
catch a glimpse of her Baron. Mamasha and Made¬ 
moiselle have gone into an apartment. Mademoi¬ 
selle says that Mamasha seems to be buying out the 
shops: Pacquin, Raudnitz, Au Gagne Petit, Louvre, 
all’s fish that comes to Mamasha’s net.” 

“You have not mentioned—mentioned—A1—Ma¬ 
dame—Madame St. Au—the—the—Ducli—” stam¬ 
mered Quentin helplessly. 

“Don’t flounder so! It’s really distressing! I 
don’t wonder you don’t know her name. It never 
seems to me as if Alixe had a name. What! Haven’t 
you heard about her? ” 

“Heard about her?” the color left Quentin’s 
cheek. His breath came thick. 

“You, too,” said Miss Spencer, surveying him 
coolly. “Well, I’m not astonished. They are all 
like that. I don’t know why it is, she certainly has 
no beauty, and she’s so-” 

“ She has gone? Where? ” 

“ That’s just the point,” said his informant. “No¬ 
body knows.” 



272 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“Nobody knows?” 

Miss Spencer shook her head. She had never been 
of such deep interest to Quentin before. She in¬ 
tended to keep him in that frame of mind as long 
as possible. 

“ Surely you know something. ” 

“ This is the story that Mademoiselle wrote me— 
Now, this is a lesson to you. Don’t quarrel with your 

best friend. Had you treated me properly-” 

“ And Mademoiselle said-” 

“ Mademoiselle said that early on the morning that 
you resolved to leave the Abbey, she had break¬ 
fasted, and was sitting in her window doing what she 
calls a sketch, one of those interminable daubs of 

hers, I suppose-” 

“ Her window! Where is her window? ” 

“ Just over the little balcony outside the ‘ small 
breakfast room. She said that she was quite busy, 
and not thinking particularly of the chateau or its 
inhabitants, when suddenly she heard voices under¬ 
neath. She listened, without listening, until she 
heard your name. You know perhaps that ce cher 
Bruno did you the honor to be jealous of you. Then, 
when she heard your name, she began to listen. She 
hates Bruno almost as badly as Gartlia does, and she 
is one of the few women who adore Alixe. I suppose 
that Alixe’s interfering with her is so remote a possi¬ 
bility-—” 

“And then-” 

“ Suddenly she heard a scream. She said it was 
a sort of subdued scream. I don’t read French very 
well, but I gather that it sounded as if Alixe couldn’t 
help it, as if she tried to suppress it. Then she 
heard another—Mademoiselle, I mean. She leaned 




THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 273 

out of her window very cautiously, for fear tliat 
Bruno should spy her, you know in what mortal 
terror they all stand of Bruno, and she saw that 
Bruno had the wrist of Alixe in his yellow fingers, 
and was twisting it round as far as he could, so far, 
in fact, that he had brought her to her knees. She 
heard Alixe say in tones of increased passion, yes, 
these were the words, ‘ Acces de colere! ‘ Coward! 

You coward! ’ she said, ‘ let me go! ’ Oh, you 
needn’t be worried. I don’t believe he got anything 
out of Alixe. She has the obstinacy of a mule.” 

Quentin spoke very fast and monotonously. 

"Well, well, tell me at once, do you hear? At 
once, where she has gone? ” 

“ Oh, now! was it going to lash itself into a rage, 
and thrash about, and go into hysterics? Calm its 
little self, do! ” 

"Will you tell me, or shall I go to Lord Eldon?” 
Quentin started as if to rise. 

"Bless you, he doesn’t know! Nobody knows. 
They haven’t the most remote glimmering of an idea. 
Mamasha doesn’t care, because she has other fish to 
fry, and the fire may go out. Is it the old gentle¬ 
man? Do tell me. I had designs in that direction 
myself, but if Mamasha has her clutch on him-” 

"Did she leave no message? ” 

"Who, Mamasha? Oh, you mean Alixe! No, the 
place is as empty as my pocket. There is no one left 
there but the servants. Even the superior Barker is 
gone.” 

" Did she leave the Abbey before Madame Petrof- 
sky?” was Quentin’s next question. 

"Yes, she left first, between two days, Mademoi¬ 
selle said. And then the dear little Bruno left. 

18 


274 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


Don’t you love liim for his grotesqueness? I should 
like to have him for a pet; it would be just like hav¬ 
ing a mongoose or a hyena, wouldn’t it? You needn’t 
hurry me so,”—in answer to a flash from Quentin’s 
eye,—“after she had shaken the dust from her soul 
—soles, I mean ” 

“Then? Then? Then?” 

“ Then that surly priest went off, faded away, they 
said, as if he never had been. He was positively of 
no use at a house party. You couldn’t get up a flir¬ 
tation with him to save your soul. Then Mamasha 
bundled the rest of them out, and the place is given 
over to the ghosts.” 

“Where can she be?” exclaimed Quentin, half 
rising. 

“ Who? Mamasha? Somewhere up near the Arc, 
I believe, near the Champs Elysees, Rue Balzac, I 
think; or no! It’s the other side, Avenue de PAlma. 
At all events, I will give you the address, if you want 
to write-” 

“ I do not mean Madame; I mean-” 

“Oh, Alixe! That I can’t tell you. How often 
must I repeat it! She has hidden her trail so well 
that even Bruno can’t find her. Poor little cub! I 
wouldn’t be married to Alixe for all the fortunes of 
the Orient. She’s always up in the clouds, always in 
heroics, mourning over the dead, or the living, or-” 

Quentin was not listening to Miss Spencer, he was 
wondering, wondering, wondering, and his surmises 
brought to him no answer. Had she but sent for 
him as he had asked her to do! But, of course, she 
could not send for him, the thought was absurd. 
Miss Spencer’s voice was going on, though he hardly 
heard it. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 275 

“Alixe always was a perfect idiot. Tlie idea of 
letting Mamasha take enough of her fortune to pay 
Bruno’s debts. They say that Mamasha, dear little 
honest soul, stowed enough away to keep herself 
going. Alixe knows nothing about money; so little, 
that they say she still thinks herself rich. This I 
have just heard from Mademoiselle. She hates Ma¬ 
masha, though she has to live with her. You know 
one must live, and she would die anywhere else, for 
no one would have her, she-” 

Miss Spencer’s stream of words was brought to a 
standstill by Quentin, who had risen. 

“ I am going to Paris this afternoon, Miss Spen¬ 
cer,” he said. “Can I take a message to Madame 
Petr of sky for you? ” 

“ Going to Paris! ” she gasped, rising in her turn, 
and discovering too late that the very means which 
she had taken to keep him were hurrying him away 
from Eldon Towers. 

“Where can I find a time-table?” he said; and 
started impetuously toward the house. Miss Spencer 
found herself forced to accompany him across the 
lawn in a most undignified gait. 

“Don’t race so,” she said, “I can’t get my breath. 
You can’t get away until after lunch, that I know. 
I hardly know if you will be able to catch the night 
boat. You don’t really mean it? ” 

“ Yes, I certainly do mean it. I will go and tell 
my man. Meantime, if you will just write down 
Madame Petrofsky’s address for me, I shall be 
obliged.” 


XXX. 


As Quentin left Eldon Towers, Miss Spencer handed 
him a folded paper. She did this with an air of pro¬ 
prietorship which enraged one or two onlookers, who 
knew as well as Miss Spencer herself that she had 
no proprietary rights vested in this good-looking 
stranger. But to their astonishment he seized upon 
the paper as if it were the deed of a gold mine, and 
thanked the giver effusively, almost tenderly. This 
puzzled those who saw it, and caused Miss Spencer 
to chuckle to herself for the next few days. “Even 
if you can’t have a thing,” she mused, “it is just as 
well to make other people think you’ve got it. It 
enhances your value.” 

Quentin crossed from Southampton in one of those 
particularly dirty boats which make one feel that 
England still lives in the dark ages, so far as travel 
is concerned, but the journey was made more quickly 
in this way because of the proximity of Eldon Tow¬ 
ers to the lines running to that ancient and smoke- 
begrimed city. He had wired for a room on board 
the boat, but when he reached the wharf he found 
that the only one had been given to a woman with 
a little ailing child. Naturally, there was nothing to 
be said. 

“Where are those fine boats,” he asked of a dirty 
cabin boy, “which this company advertises exten¬ 
sively as crossing every night to France?” He 


THE AKCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 277 

was answered that they’d been “took hoff to run 
to the Channel h’islands as the ter’havel was so 
’eavy.” 

The night was dark and rainy, the soot was falling 
everywhere, and when Quentin arose in the morning, 
the light grey suit in which he had travelled was a 
mass of streaks and blotches. He had obtained the 
seclusion which he desired by a liberal douceur to 
the captain, who must probably remain up all night, 
as the weather was very thick and foggy. The boat 
arrived at Havre too late for the Paris train, and he 
must fain content himself with rebellious patience for 
some hours, until another traii^ should start. He 
reached Paris late in the afternoon, and when he had 
removed the signs of travel he left his hotel, and 
went in search of Madame. 

Quentin drove to the apartment house whose ad¬ 
dress Miss Spencer had given him. He asked for 
Madame Petrofsky, and almost pushed past the con¬ 
cierge in his haste to mount the stairs. The woman 
looked astonished, and said at once that the lady did 
not live there. 

“But she does live here,” replied Quentin. “Here 
is her address.” The concierge took the j)aper, 
turned it upside down, and wrong side up, studied 
the enigmatical English screed, and then repeated 
that the lady did not live at No. 37. 

“Who is living in the house? ” asked Quentin im¬ 
peratively. 

“ In the entresol was a French family. Au premier 
was the American consul. These Americans always 
took the finest floor and paid the highest prices. 
Why, only yesterday, if Monsieur would believe it, 
Henri went just across the Champs Elysees on a 


278 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


small errand, and when lie returned the American 
monsieur gave him one franc fifty-” 

“ Have you no idea where Madame Petrofsky lives? 
A Russian lady accompanied by a small French 
lady?” Here Quentin recalled Gartha’s description 
of the Weasel, and was almost minded to recite, “ Elle 
est caracterisee de la maniere suivante.” However, 
his description was a minute one, which would not 
have sounded exactly flattering to Mademoiselle had 
she heard it. Madame was described with the same 
minuteness, but she came off better at his hands. 
Still, the pleasant-faced concierge smiled and shook 
her head and insisted that no such ladies lived in the 
house, that Monsieur must have deceived himself, 
the address must be wrong. These English had 
much to learn in the matter of writing. “ Sale An¬ 
glais ! ” muttered the concierge under her breath, not 
quite sure of her ground, through not having learned 
that Monsieur belonged to the lavish, English-speak¬ 
ing, American nation. Quentin put some money into 
her hand to encourage her memory. 

“ Are there no Russian ladies living in this street 
or in this block? ” 

“How can I say, Monsieur? Does the Monsieur 
expect me to know all the ladies who come to take 
the apartments for a little while in the street or in 
the square?” her smile growing more broad as she 
hastily slipped the douceur within her capacious 
pocket, to avoid the lynx eyes of her husband, who 
just then appeared in the court. Quentin went to 
the next house and then the next, but with no suc¬ 
cess. He then dismissed his cab, and going to a 
nearby telegraph station, he wired to Miss Spencer 
at Eldon Towers, “ I cannot find Madame Petrofsky 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 279 


at that address. Have you not made a mistake? 
Please wire correct address at once.” Like most 
men with one idea and an uncontracted bank account, 
he left no chance for misunderstanding because of 
curtailing his sentences. To make sure of a reply 
he added, “Answer. Twenty words paid, ” signed his 
name, gave his hotel address, and then started off at 
railway speed, he had not considered where. 

After ten minutes’ walk he found himself in the 
Cours la Reine. He looked about him with as much 
astonishment as that which possesses a Frenchman 
who knows nothing but his own quarter; but for the 
moment all places were alike to him. The discom¬ 
fort of the all-pervading dust which was flying from 
the buildings in process of being erected for the 
great Exposition caused him to look about for an¬ 
other cab. He had passed the stand at the corner 
of the Avenue Montaigne, and as, at the moment, one 
of those Juggernauts, a French tram-car or train of 
cars, came along, lumbering and groaning and clear¬ 
ing the way with its irrepressible tooting horn, Quen¬ 
tin with a quick bound was upon the step, and climb¬ 
ing to the top, unheeding the remonstrance of the 
guard, who informed him with a very serious tone 
that he might have been killed by so daring an act. 
Quentin laughed in his face, whereupon the guard, 
not wishing to create a scene with so well dressed a 
man, shrugged his shoulders, muttering, “ Crazy Eng¬ 
lish,” and returned without further remonstrance to 
the taking of fares. Quentin walked to the front and 
took a vacant seat just behind the driver. His back 
was toward the river, his face toward the driveway. 
He was ruminating deeply. “ Why should Miss Spen¬ 
cer have given me the wrong address? What could 


280 THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


have been the reason? Was it purposely done?” 
Quentin took the paper from his breast pocket, and 
again scrutinized the address. No, he was right. 
There it stood, 37 as plain as possible. Suddenly 
he thought, “ Why did I not telegraph to Lord Eldon? 
He would have known. If Alixe is in Paris, I must 
see her some time, but Madame must know her 
whereabouts. It cannot be that she is ignorant of 

her own daughter’s address—I must see-” 

A carriage was whirling swiftly past in the oppo¬ 
site direction. Quentin at first regarded it absently, 
and then he suddenly rose in his seat calling, “ Stop! 
Stop!” and began to push frantically along to the 
back of the car, for in that carriage sat the object of 
his thoughts. She was with a man, and that man 
the Archbishop. Quentin had hardly recognized her 
before he saw that he too was recognized by her. 
He ran, he called, he stared, he pushed past the pas¬ 
sengers, like the crazy man to whom the guard had 
likened him, and as he ran, he waved his hand to 
her. She did not smile nor did she call the attention 
of the Archbishop to him. It was but for a moment, 
and then it was the back of the landau at which he 
was staring blindly, as he felt his way down the 
stairs. There was a tussle at -the foot as he tried to 
spring to the ground. This he succeeded in doing, 
notwithstanding the rage of the guard, who threat¬ 
ened him with certain arrest and demanded his card, 
but he was still threatening, still demanding, as Quen¬ 
tin had thrown himself into a passing fiacre and was 
whirled away after a landau which was going rapidly 
up the Cours la Peine. Although his cocher had 
been ordered to drive like a gentleman not mentioned 
in polite history, the coming Exposition was a factor 


THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 281 


in liis discomfiture. The great scaffoldings, the piles 
of earth, the enormous wagons which were unload¬ 
ing jangling, crashing bars of iron on to the pave¬ 
ment, all blocked his way, and when he turned into 
the Avenue Montaigne, he saw to his confusion that 
there were several carriages ahead of him. He chose 
one which had, he thought, a familiar aspect, and its 
chase led him to the Champs Elysees. The cocher, 
by dint of beating his poor little horse, and in view 
of the liberal offers of pourboire, managed to follow 
the landau closely, and Quentin came up abreast of 
it and was lost, as it rolled across into the Eue Wash¬ 
ington, for as he agitatedly turned to see whom the 
carriage contained, he found only an aged dowager 
inside, and two very fat poodle dogs looking out aim¬ 
lessly on either side. With a sharp word at his ill 
luck, he ordered the cab turned about, and drove to 
his hotel, there to wait an answer to his message to 
Miss Spencer. 


XXXI. 


Quentin sat in his hotel all that evening, waiting 
for the answer which was to make the world rose- 
colored again for him. No such occurrence came to 
cheer him, however, and he went to bed, angry with 
the world and Miss Spencer, and Madame in particu¬ 
lar ; Madame, his whilom friend. It was strange that 
she had not written him of her flight from the Abbey. 
Why had not Lord Eldon told him of it? The only 
answer to this was that Englishmen are proverbially 
reticent, and Lord Eldon might not have thought 
that the subject was of interest to Quentin. When 
day came, he went at once to the telegraph office. 
He wired Miss Spencer again and received this pro¬ 
voking answer: “Did not wire name hotel. Must 
made a mistake. Possibly wrote seven for nine.” 
This was as Sanscrit to Quentin. He saw now very 
plainly that Miss Spencer had not intended to let 
him have Madame’s address, if she could prevent it. 
He then wired Lord Eldon: “ Kindly send me Ma¬ 

dame Petrofsky’s address in Paris.” 

Late on the following day he received an answer 
from Lady Albert Carstairs: “ Have not the most re¬ 
mote idea what it is. Eldon gone off to see his 
uncle. Sudden attack. Dying in Scotland.” 

Again he telegraphed, and this time for Lord El¬ 
don’s address, and after another night of suspense it 
came to him. A message to Lord Eldon to the Scot- 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 283 


tisk address was finally answered, and having spent 
three fruitless days in Paris, eating his heart out, he 
at last rang the bell at the number which Lord Eldon 
had sent him. This time he was ushered into the 
apartments of Madame Petrofsky, and while awaiting 
that lady’s appearance, which seemed imminent from 
the sounds of the jerking out and closing of bureau 
drawers, he went to the window and looked out. 
Just across the way he gazed down into the pleasant 
face of the concierge who had assured him but three 
days before that no such ladies as those whom he 
sought lived in the street. 

After awhile the rustling and thumping ceased. 
There was dead quiet for a moment. Quentin could 
imagine it occupied with those mysteries of the 
toilet which are accomplished by soft little pats and 
wipings-off on cheek and chin, and which make no 
noise while in progress. Then the door opened, and 
Madame came into the room. She ran toward Quen¬ 
tin with a little cry of joy. It warmed his heart, 
which his good sense told him not to allow. 

“ You dear! ” she said, holding his hands in both 
of hers. “ How good it seems to see you again. And 
how good of you to send me that charming chain. 
Quite the prettiest thing that I have had thus far. 
And what are you doing in Paris? ” 

“I came to ask you a very important question,” 
answered Quentin; “at least, a question important 
to me.” 

“Sit down, dear friend,” said Madame. She ar¬ 
ranged herself becomingly against a pillow of Indian 
red which set off the black lace pleatings about her 
face and throat. Her back was to the light, a bit of 
calculation which Quentin did not notice. How 


284 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


young she looked, with her trim figure, and chiffons 
and laces of the most modern type. Quentin, even 
with other thoughts uppermost, noticed several 
things about her dress that he had never seen be¬ 
fore. She was indeed to be a brand new bride for 
Lord Eldon. Quentin sat down and faced her. The 
little light that was allowed to penetrate fell full 
upon his expressive face, and struck deep into the 
honest grey eyes. She leaned toward him, her lips 
trembling, a slight pulsation of her pretty cheek show¬ 
ing that she, too, had interesting thoughts. 

“I hesitate,” he said, “because it is a subject on 
which I fear you cannot be in accord with me; but 
wrong though it is, and wrongly as I may place my¬ 
self within your eyes, I must know the truth.” 

Madame raised those beautiful innocent eyes of 
hers to his. “Tell me what it is, dear friend,” she 
said. “ Tell me what it is. ” 

“If you should refuse,” murmured Quentin, “what 
should I do? What should I do? Do you know,” 
he went on agitatedly, “ that I have been looking for 
you for three whole days? I have wired to England, 
I have taken every means to find you-” 

“Has Eldon given you my address? ” As Madame 
asked the question she made room for him beside 
her. “Sit here,” she said, “sit here by me.” He 
got up with a sigh and threw himself wearily beside 
her. She slid her plump hand along her flounces, 
and laid it within his. He started at its unexpected 
touch, but gave it a kindly answering pressure. 

“There is nothing that I would not do for you,” 
said she. “I am not bound in any way. No, I am 
bound only to please myself. I have made no prom¬ 
ises which will prevent. Only speak! Speak, my 


THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 285 


friend, and say wliat it is that you wish.” She was 
so near Quentin now that he was somewhat discon¬ 
certed. He loosened his grasp of her hand and with¬ 
drew a little. 

“You will tell me?” he said almost sternly. 

“Yes, yes! What is it?” Madame looked thor¬ 
oughly frightened. She knew not at what. A life 
of love had ever been, was still the craving of her 
perennially juvenile heart. Contradictory as the state¬ 
ment may seem, when one considers all Madame’s 
small failings, it is a true one. Her marriages had 
been to her mind distinct successes from a worldly 
standpoint, but she felt that she had been sacrificed, 
first, on the altar of Carleton, a man, though charm¬ 
ing, whom she had not loved, and yet again, on ac¬ 
count of the little ones, for whom her slender purse 
had not been able to provide. Could love come to 
her but once before she should pass that terrible 
boundary where youth ends, and old age lias its be¬ 
ginning, she would thank the gods and leave worry 
for others less fortunate than she. 

Neither of Madame’s marriages had been love mar¬ 
riages, and she had failed to reach that acme of sup¬ 
posititious perfect bliss. Madame thought that she 
could live a life of joy if all things would but con¬ 
spire to aid the end she had ever had in view. Our 
hearts are not withered at forty-three, nor at fifty- 
three, and oftentimes not at sixty-three; it all de¬ 
pends upon the digestion. Ah! poor soul, how could 
Quentin be so single-minded as to dispel all sen¬ 
timent within her breast; but when was impetu¬ 
ous, youthful love ever kind, except to the chosen 
one? 

“Where is Alixe? ” asked Quentin. 


286 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


All, it had come! That terrible question which she 
was dreading, yet hoping not to hear. 

“Alixe?” Poor Madame! She swallowed some¬ 
thing, that felt like a knot of cotton wool in her 
throat, and again she said, “Alixe?” 

Madame’s digestion was perfect. She had been 
invisible on occasions because of headache, but when 
the reason for invisibility had subsided the headache 
had subsided also. To this perennial heart, then, 
what must have been the shock when Quentin erased 
all sentiment for him forever within her breast, by 
repeating bluntly, “Where is Alixe? ” 

“ Alixe? You surprise me! ” Madame sat up very 
straight. “Why should you speak of her in that 
way? You hardly know her.” 

“That is quite true,” acquiesced Quentin. “You 
need not remind me of that. I have forgotten con¬ 
ventionality, but I—I fear she is in great trouble. 
I—I—am led to suppose—” He broke off suddenly, 
and looked Madame full in the eye, that handsome 
eye which heretofore had looked so kindly upon him. 
“Do you know where she is? ” he said. 

Madame, grown white, by reason of the chill which 
her cherished sentiment had received, sank back upon 
her sofa quite regardless of her chiffons, and replied, 
“I do not.” 

“Not know where your own daughter is?” ex¬ 
claimed Quentin, with a mixture of sternness and 
entreaty in his voice. 

“My niece? She has wilfully left me.” 

“Very well, then, your niece, though this is no 
time for shams. Yalery has told me something of 
the family history-” 

“It was like him,” interrupted Madame. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 287 


“It is of little interest whether the relation that 
she bears to yon is that of niece, daughter, or grand¬ 
daughter—” Quentin was so selfishly in earnest 
that his words seemed possessed of great brutality. 
Madame turned a greenish shade, she gasped. A 
reply did not come at her bidding. 

“I must find her,” finished Quentin. 

Madame struggled to speak. When she could 
move her stiff lips the words came haltingly. 

“ I see no reason why you should find her, she a 
married woman, you a young—you an unmarried 
man; and she herself is the last one who would wish 
it. You are not of our family, that you should come 
interfering in this way. Rest assured that when we 
need your assistance, Mr. Quentin-” 

“I have no desire to interfere, Madame”—Quentin 
was quite oblivious that this was exactly what he was 
doing, at that moment—“but I hear that she has left 
her home; that the Abbey is closed, deserted! I beg 
of you—I beg of you, tell me why.” 

His voice shook and died away almost to a whis¬ 
per. In that agitation Madame read the death-blow 
to her hopes. She began at once to compose a men¬ 
tal letter to Lord Eldon, telling him that she would 
be ready at the earliest date which he had named. 
When she answered Quentin, her voice also trembled, 
but it was cold and distant. 

“ I cannot tell you where she is, ” she said. 

“You mean you will not.” 

“ I mean that I cannot. Oh! what have I done 
that that woman always comes between my friends 
and me? I mean it, I cannot! I do not know.” 

“You do not know the address of the person or 
persons with whom she is at the moment? ” 


288 THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“No! No! No! How often must I tell you, 
No!” 

“ Will you swear it? ” 

“ I will swear it if it will give you any particular 
comfort, if it will cause you to believe me, and insult 
me no further.” She put her shaking, beringed 
hands before her face. A long sigh escaped her, 
the sigh of final relinquishment. 

“ Oh, Madame! ” exclaimed Quentin, “ I have hurt 
you! Believe me, I am sorry. I am too wretched 
to know what I am doing; I—T thought you might 
have seen her. I saw her yesterday-” 

“ You saw her yesterday. Where? ” 

Quentin was about to say, “ With the Archbishop,” 
but the conviction that had Alixe wished her mother 
to know her whereabouts, she would have confided 
in her, prevented. What right had he to disclose 
that which he had procured only by chance? 

“I saw her in a carriage in the Cours la Heine,” 
said he. 

“ Then she is in Paris. Did you speak to her? ” 

“ Do you suppose that had I been able to speak to 
her I should be here begging her address from you? ” 

The tone was sharp; Madame called it harsh in her 
thoughts. 

“Did she see you?” 

“She saw me, yes, I think she saw me.” 

“ Oh, then, she did not recognize you! Would not, 
perhaps.” Why should not Madame also administer 
a few stings? 

“No, not what you would call recognize me.” It 
came over him again, painfully, that she had looked 
at him, but had made no sign of recognition. 

“ She is no better then to you, it seems, than to the 


THE AKCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 289 


rest of us,” said Madame. “She has behaved in a 
most unkind manner to her husband and to me. I 
wash my hands of her henceforth, from this day.” 

“In what way was she unkind to you?” asked 
Quentin. 

“ She left us in the night. When, I do not know. 
They are all in her pay at the Abbey.” Quentin 
smiled grimly as the literal truth of this statement 
forced itself on his mind. “They pretend to know 
nothing. I only know that she had not been to bed. 
She took her maid Nanette and left us like that ”—• 
Madame snapped her glittering fingers in air—“ with¬ 
out a word.” 

“ I thought you would know something,” said Quen¬ 
tin miserably. 

Madame laughed unpleasantly. 

“ Je ne suis pas la rose,” she said shrilly, “mais 
j’ai v6cu avec elle. However, that is over; I doubt 
if we live together ever again. Yalery, great Irish 
pig! only laughed and rubbed his hands, and said 
that Bruno and I would see at last that Alixe had 
some spirit. Spirit! Stealing away in the night! 
As for Bruno, it is killing him. He loves her to 
distraction.” 

“ He must! ” said Quentin dryly. 

“ What do you mean! I never saw a man so 
changed. His business keeps him away a great deal, 
to be sure, but-■” 

“What business?” asked Quentin. “I knew that 
he trifled a little with potash and chlorides, but as 
to anything serious-” 

“You shall not speak so to me of Bruno.” Ma¬ 
dame arose, her face was flushed, her eyes were no 
longer innocent, but very angry. “He has made 

19 


290 THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


some very good sums of late. I don’t know exactly 
what liis business is, but-” 

“ Well! ” said Quentin desperately, “ that is neither 
here nor there. If you really cannot, or will not, tell 
me where she is-” 

At this Madame collapsed upon the sofa, bent her 
well-preserved face upon the pillow and burst into a 
rage of tears. “How can you?” she said. The 
smothered sounds came through several inches of 
swansdown. Quentin stood uncomfortable—irreso¬ 
lute. He could not take up the role of comforter; that 
had become distasteful to him, and besides it was full 
of danger. He stood there, looking down upon the top 
of the well ondule hair of his sometime friend, wonder¬ 
ing how the affair would all end. Madame was really 
crying; there was no pretence about that, at any rate. 
Finally, between heartrending sobs, “Lower the 
shades,” she said. “All of them; that one over there 
at the corner. I am a perfect fright when I cry.” 

Quentin obediently lowered the heavy green cur¬ 
tains, one after the other, and reduced the room to 
Cimmerian darkness. He feared to stir. In imagi¬ 
nation he saw disaster to the numerous little tables in 
his path. As he stood for a moment to get his bear¬ 
ings, and accustom himself to the absence of light, 
“Do you know,” said Madame in smothered tones, 
“ that you will make trouble for Alixe if you hound 
her about in this way? ” 

He was feeling his way warily toward the door. 
“ Do you hear me? ” The voice had lost the sound of 
coming through down. She must be sitting up. 

“I am not hounding her,” Quentin weakly pleaded. 
After he had said these words he continued to grope 
toward the door. He went, softly groping, groping, 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 291 


groping. Ah! liis hand was on the knob. What 
luck! He held it firmly. 

“ And what do you intend to do now? Don’t stand 
there by the window. Come over here and tell me 
what you intend doing now? ” 

“Nothing,” answered Quentin, as he suddenly 
turned the knob. A strong flood of light entered, 
but was as quickly banished as he shut himself away 
from the presence of Madame and ran down the stairs 
and out into the Paris sunshine. 


XXXII. 


When Quentin had gone without doubt, Madame 
rose and drew up the shades. Then she went into 
her room and made herself charming again. Madame 
was one who would have dressed for herself had she 
lived upon an oasis in the desert. One could not im¬ 
agine her without a hand-glass and powder puff. 
When these articles and others as necessary had been 
put to good use, she returned to the salon and opened 
her desk. 

If the whereabouts of Alixe were unknown to most 
persons it was not a secret from her brother-in-law, 
who, however, when Madame wrote, saying, “Of 
course you know where she is, Valery dear; you 
always encourage her,” answered, “Know where 
Alixe is? How should I know? ” Now Madame sat 
down to bombard Valery with more arguments, 
making eight pages of a single sheet. These intricate 
crossings tried the good eyes and sweet temper of the 
Kastaquouere. 

“ I am a good Catholic, Valery dear, as you know, 
a very devoted daughter of the church; but if Alixe 
is, as I have reason to believe, somewhere in hiding, 
where the dear Archbishop has access to her, she may 
after all join my faith, and then all that fine property 
will go to the church. I do not know exactly what 
the French laws are with regard to a wife’s property 
and her husband’s rights in it; but dearly as I love 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 293 


Bruno, I really tliink lie has had all that he should 
have, and as you once said to me, it is only throwing 
good money after bad. If the dear Archbishop 
knows where Alixe is, and Bruno should die suddenly, 
I fear that before we could prevent it, she would enter 
a convent, and give all her money to the church. 
This I highly approve of in some cases, but not in 
others, such as ours, for instance, where my property 
is so very small, and I cannot live decently unless I 
have a home with Alixe.” 

Although Yalery had propounded to his young 
mother-in-law the question as to how he should know 
where Alixe might be, he, on that very day, addressed 
an envelope to her in his big bold hand. It had been 
brought to him by a very young woman for correc¬ 
tion, a young woman who like too many children of her 
nationality had been educated in Paris and knew little 
or nothing of the spelling of her native tongue. He 
had read it while sipping his coffee in the garden and 
had laughed unrestrainedly over its length and strange 
sentences. He had said to Gartha, “I couldn’t make 
it any better; really I couldn’t, Gartha. I should 
only spoil it. Let it go as it is.” 

Gartha put on a conscious air and plumed herself 
as she had seen the young peacocks do at Countess 
Blandina’s. 

"I am of an education somewhat high,” said Gar¬ 
tha. “ I can speak four of the languages, moi! The 
English, that comes the first, being the one that is 
worth speaking. The argot of the Quartier Latin 
comes the next. Marie Monrouge, her cousin is an 
artist-peintre. He teached it. Expressions of the 
sort ‘ espece de type,’ and £ sale Prusse,’ and ‘ sale 
Anglais; ’ though I, who love the English, would never 


294 THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


say such a thing. After the argot of the Quartier 
will come the American, because that is the tongue of 
John Quentin and Harry Ware, and apres ”—one al¬ 
most expected to hear the words “the deluge”— 
“apres comes that French. That is no tongue for 
the people of our condition, only for poodles and 
Weasels.” 

Gartha with much appearance of conscious pride 
had marched with head held high to Bridget McCune, 
the maid whom Yalery had taken for her in his father’s 
household, and said: 

“ Please post my letter, dear Bridget McCune. My 
father says he could not improve it. In it I speak 
very kindly of you.” The letter was dated “Bally- 
rogan, Ireland,” and ran: 

“ My devoted Aleeks i am in sore distress jay per¬ 
due mon bague with which missue jon kenton seal our 
love, it is a ill omen it belonged to the ded, and if your 
ring belong to the ded she come wen the night is dark 
as pich and in thunder tones say where is the ring i 
trusted to my brither elsie macdonal say that is the 
spelling of it elsio macdonal is skotch. i think the 
weasal stoled it for of all the poor things minus virtu 
the weasel is she i might say it. i ask my father 
what gender virtu is and he says nooter because virtu 
belongs to no sex. i here that jon kenton is stoping 
with lord eldin and if he is he cant be far seprated 
from me his only love they tell me that la manche 
seprate us not la manche of engeland but la manche 
of ireland they endeavors to make me speak the frinch 
here but i tell them it is a vile tongue and should not 
be spoke by ladies of good blood, i am getting to like 
jon macdonal quite well and when i ask him if he 
likes me he says nat verra mooch which is the ways 
of men so no more from your derely loved Gartha. 
P.S. i ask bridget mccune how to end it an she says 


THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY* 295 


snap it sliort aff begorra. mais il faut que je impress 
upon you tlie lost of that bague you may say to the 
weasel that i will send her a formal invite to the weed¬ 
ing but it is against the lore of the kenton famlv to 
make bains pieds in her sauser and my husband would 
be disgusted and go for her tooth and nail bridget 
macune says that is what she would do with tliim 
frincli begorra excuse the irisli valery spelled the frinch 
for me he shouted it in from the garden—so b-a-i-n-s 
p-i-e-d-s—so i hope jon kenton will prove to be more 
of a gentleman than my farther and that our sons 
may be like him that is all that i ask of god i would 
ask it of the Sainte Vierge, but you know how the 
wimmen acts wen you want anything, your very be¬ 
loved and adored Gartlia p. s. i have ast briget macune 
and elsie macdonal to be my bridesmaids, i ast cook 
out of politnes briget and elsie has ascepted but cath- 
ern moriarty says she has a sister in service in amer- 
iky and she might mite be laundress in my husbans 
famly and it woud cry shame to her i weeped wen she 
refuse but she comfit me with some cake wicli was 
most delicius and give me a great pane, it fell, the 
hevvy streke with sugar is what i have engage her to 
make for my weeding i love dere briget macune and i 
hope that jon kentin will love her in equal proportion 
i mite have married his emnunce but i am as you 
know devote for children, and wen i ask lord eldin if 
archbishops has fine stalwart sons he says none to 
speak of. it was a grief to me so no more from your 
admired and much prized Gartlia p s the cook showed 
me Low to end N’oubliez pas la bague. valery screamed 
that in from the garden the speling, i mean i am re¬ 
joy ce jon kentin is not here to be shock.” 


“ I couldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t read it my¬ 
self,” said Valery to Gartha in speaking of her letter. 
“ The sentiments alone are well worth the price of ad¬ 
mission.” 


296 • THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“I suppose you mean wortli the stamps, Valery,” 
said Gartlia. 

Valery wrote a long letter also to his sister-in-law, 
which went in the same mail with Gartha’s. 

“ The poor little tad has been struggling with that 
screed for three days,” he said. “I see that you are 
right, and that the child should go to a good English 
school or she will never learn to write a decent Eng¬ 
lish letter. She writes French fairly well, but her 
English is beyond criticism. No words will do it 
justice. Let me know when your interdict is abro¬ 
gated, the embargo raised. Mamaslia begs me to 
tell where you are. She seems to be afraid that you 
will leave or give some money to the church. Cer¬ 
tainly, my dear Alixe, you cannot expect those good 
women to take you in and give you simply what will 
pay for your living. I know your generosity, but 
you must do as your heart prompts you to do, and 
not as Mamasha wishes in this matter. If she is go¬ 
ing to marry Eldon, she will have gold and to spare.” 
Valery did not add that he had sent Madame a very 
substantial check a few days before, that she might 
not be hampered in getting her wedding outfit. 

There came a second draft to Madame. It was for 
a large sum, much larger than that usually spent for 
a trousseau. It was enclosed within a letter which was 
undated, but the envelope bore the Paris postmark. 

“My dear Mamasha,” it ran, “I know how hard it 
is to get a trousseau with very little money. I know 
what difficulty you had in getting mine. I send you 
what I think will make you feel comfortable, and I 
hope that it will make you happy. I hope that you 
and Lord Eldon will spend your honeymoon at the 
Abbey. I have written Charles that he is to receive 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 297 


orders from you, exactly as if they were from me. If 
Bruno is there, or comes back, you will of course be 
glad to have him live in the chalet as usual. The 
chateau will be large enough for you, and if you wish 
to ask a house party a little later on, pray do so. I 
shall not be with you, but I do truly wish you every 
happiness. Alixe . 5 ’ 


xxxin. 


Quentin remained in Paris. For wliat he hardly 
knew. He could find the Archbishop, for no one was 
more easily found, but he had no wish to pursue 
Alixe; and further than that, he had no right to do 
so. He walked often, however, in the quarter where 
he knew that the Archbishop lived; and one day was 
fortunate enough to meet him on foot. The genial 
smile was as kindly as ever, the friendly hand as 
openly outstretched. 

“Ah, Mr. Quentin, and where have you come 
from? ” 

“I have been in England, at Eldon Towers,” said 
Quentin, “ but I heard some news which brought me 
back to Paris.” 

“Not bad news, I hope.” The Archbishop looked 
at him keenly. 

“I hardly know,” said Quentin. “Sometimes I 
think it is very bad news, again I think it may prove 
to be good. I wish that I had some one to tell me.” 

The Archbishop smiled at the young man in a 
friendly way. 

“Were you a good son of the Church, Mr. Quentin, 
you would come to me perhaps and let me help you; 
but of course as you do not belong to us, I can hardly 
suggest that.” 

“I do not know what to do,” said Quentin, looking 
irresolutely at the old man and then on the ground. 


THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 299 


Tlie Archbishop gave his hand, which he had not 
released, a friendly pressure. 

“When you want a friend, Mr. Quentin,” he said, 
“don’t think of religious differences. Just come to 
me as you would have gone to your own father for 
help in trouble.” 

As Quentin walked away his mind was in a tumult 
with conflicting thoughts. He was so miserable that 
he took no note of the path which he traversed, but 
walked on, and suddenly became conscious that he 
was again near the gate from which the Archbishop 
had emerged. The walls of the enclosure rose high. 
He saw that trees grew within, and he perceived that 
the gray walls of a great building showed faintly 
through them. 

He raised his eyes to the arch over the closed gate 
and saw that the religious emblem of the cross of 
Christ was placed above it. So this was some holy 
retreat; he might have known it. He walked around 
the entire square, but saw no place where the privacy 
and seclusion of the spot seemed broken. It was as a 
closed book, whose leaves he might not cut. As he 
proceeded on his way he saw across the street hanging 
upon the door of a great building the sign, “ Apparte- 
ments a louer. ” A sudden thought seized him. He 
entered the shaded stone entrance, and asked to see 
the apartments. They were au premier and au sec¬ 
ond, if Monsieur would take the trouble to mount. 

“And what is there en face? ” asked Quentin. 

“That is the convent of-,” mentioning a saint 

whose name was not unfamiliar to Quentin. 

He examined the rooms critically, asking questions 
the while. “ Is it a convent where the sisters take 
people from the outside world?” he asked. 


300 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 

“ Oh, yes, Monsieur, and all those whom they take 
lodge on this side. The other side is given over to 
the Religious. But they will not disturb Monsieur. 
As Monsieur perceives there is but little of the garden 
that can be seen.” Quentin’s heart gave a great leap. 
He looked out of all the windows on both the first 
and second floors, and finding that a little corner of 
the convent garden was open to view from the second 
story apartment, he engaged it for a month, with the 
privilege of renewal if it pleased him. 

And now began for Quentin restless days and fever¬ 
ish nights. He went to bed or out into the streets 
only when it grew so dark that he could discern 
nothing more in the garden. He was up with the 
dawn watching to see who should come there. Some¬ 
times he saw some children playing in the garden, 
watched by pleasant-faced sisters; sometimes he saw 
the sisters walking there by threes; but he never saw 
the form which he sought. After he had lived in his 
rooms for three weeks, he again met the Archbishop. 
This time he was entering the gate of the convent. 

“Ah, Mr. Quentin! Again in this quarter?” He 
fancied the tone was somewhat suspicious. “ Are you 
living over here then? ” 

“I often walk here,” said Quentin. “I am a great 
walker, you know. My. hotel is on the other side.” 
They parted, the Archbishop entering the gate, and 
Quentin walked on. What he had told the Arch¬ 
bishop was literally true, for he had not vacated his 
rooms at the hotel where he usually stayed when in 
Paris. There his letters came to him, and at night, 
when there was no more hope of seeing into the con¬ 
vent garden, he went there, or to his club, or took a 
spin in the Bois in an automobile, but always re- 


THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 301 


turned to sleep, and arise with the dawn. He fancied 
sometimes that the very tall nun who walked in the 
garden might be Alixe. He wondered if she had de¬ 
termined to take up the conventual life. The idea 
drove him mad, and yet what had he to say as to the 
decision of another man’s wife to take holy vows. 
He wondered whether the Archbishop would consent 
to receive a married woman into the conventual life; 
whether such separations were sanctioned by the 
Church. Possibly if Alixe could divide her fortune, 
St. Aubin would be willing to take half of it and allow 
her to go from him, to the peace and rest which a holy 
life might bring. 

How many times these same thoughts went wander¬ 
ing through his brain he did not try to count. They 
and their variations were ever with him, subordinated 
only by the one great desire to meet Alixe, just for a 
moment, a few moments, face to face. At last, after 
a month of weary days and disturbed nights, getting 
no news and seeing nothing of the old occupants of 
the Abbey, he determined to call upon the Arch¬ 
bishop. Procuring his address he went to the quar¬ 
ter where His Grace’s palace stood. When shown 
into the well-closed house he was all at once aston¬ 
ished at his own temerity. He was attacked with a 
species of stage fright, so to speak. Now that he 
was here, his knees gave way under him as he mounted 
the stairs. What had he come to say? He asked 
himself this and many a similar question as he was 
shown into an ante-room. It seemed that it was the 
Archbishop’s pleasure to see personally those who 
wished to see him, and as Quentin entered, he found 
himself surrounded by several persons of both sexes. 
One or two shabby looking priests were there, one 


302 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


dignified old father of the Church, fat and rubi¬ 
cund, and three poorly dressed women. A lady, 
richly dressed, sat near the door. She was tall and 
slight, and Quentin hoped at first that it might be her 
whom he sought; but when, on being asked by the 
secretary to enter the Archbishop’s private room, and 
she rose and raised her veil, he saw the face of an old 
gray-haired woman. 

When all those who had arrived before him had 
been ushered into the Archbishop’s room, and left it 
presumably by some other door, for Quentin did not 
see them again, he was approached by the young priest 
who acted as secretary, and asked if he wished to see 
His Grace. 

For answer he handed his card to the priest, and 
was at once shown into the library of the Archbishop. 

“Ah! Mr. Quentin, so you have come to confess at 
last? ” said His Grace, rising from his leather-covered 
chair, and laughing a little as he did so. 

“I don’t know exactly what I have come for, Your 
Grace,” replied Quentin. “I am very unhappy, and 
I don’t know where else to go.” 

The Archbishop gave Quentin one of his rare 
smiles. 

“ They always come to the Church, Mr. Quentin, 
when they are in trouble,” he said, “and She opens 
her arms to them as if they had not scorned Her 
while they were in prosperity.” 

“I—I don’t think I want to come into the church, 
Your Grace. I have had too Puritan an upbringing 
for that,” said Quentin frankly. “It is you whom I 
wish to see—you personally.” 

The Archbishop looked solemn. 

“Dear sir,” he said, “do not say that so decidedly. 


THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 303 


The time may come as I have said. She opens her 
arms to all. Now, what is the trouble? Business 
matters? Those are not always so readily settled. 
Death? That is an easy matter for the faithful sons 
and daughters of the Church to bear. Come! Ease 
your mind. What is it? ” 

The Archbishop laid his handsome, well-kept hand 
upon Quentin’s arm. The episcopal ring shone out 
with great brilliancy. Quentin’s thoughts flew back 
to Gartha and her naive remark about Mamasha hang¬ 
ing on to the Archbishop’s hand and His Grace not 
seeming to mind it. So many had clung to that hand: 
the hand ever ready to help, the hand that was per¬ 
petually outstretched to aid. The tears came to Quen¬ 
tin’s eyes. His gaze rested upon the ring. His lips 
trembled into a nervous smile, as Gartha’s absurd 
words, the Archbishop’s unvarying gentleness to one 
who had no claim upon him, and his own troubles 
were inextricably mingled within his thoughts. 

The Archbishop rose and went to a little glass cup¬ 
board. He took therefrom a delicate bottle and a gob¬ 
let of antique shape. 

He poured a dark stream from the bottle. 

“There! there! my friend,” he said, “drink that! 
It will pull you together, as you English say. Impe¬ 
rial Tokay from the cellars of-.” His Grace men¬ 

tioned the name of a well-known princely connoisseur, 
not as if he were vain of the fact that the present had 
been sent by him, but as if he wished to prove to 
Quentin that the wine must be of good quality. 
“You are run down. You look thin, Mr. Quentin; 
your trouble must be great. Compose yourself and 
then tell me all about it.” 

Was this the confessional of which Quentin’s Puri- 


304 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


tanical ancestors liad talked, and railed while they 
talked? Was this the box where you might confess 
at one window, while the priest was gazing out of the 
other at some wedding or churchly show? 

Quentin took the glass and thirstily swallowed the 
wine. 

“You drink like a starving man,” said His Grace, 
“ as if it were meat and drink to you. Have you been 
fasting of late? ” 

“Not intentionally,” said Quentin. A flush, born 
partly of the delicious sting of the wine, and partly 
from the feeling of repose which the Archbishop’s 
presence always engendered, came over Quentin’s 
face. He took the seat which was offered him. 

“I am keeping you too long,” he said; “that I 
know—I who have no claim. I am not of your 
church; not of your religion. ” 

“ I have a common brotherhood with the sorrowful,” 
said His Grace. “ They ”—with a nod at the ante¬ 
chamber—“ can wait for you as you waited for others, 
as others must wait for them. When the hours which 
I reserve are gone, they must depart and come again 
some other day. Well, now, what is it? ” 

The Archbishop leaned back in his chair, and put 
the tips of his fingers together; he looked at Quentin 
expectantly. 

His visitor arose and began to pace the room. He 
did not speak for some moments. He swallowed once 
or twice, then turned and looked at the gentle old 
man as if to gain courage. 

“There is a woman,” he burst out. 

His emotion, now that he had really embarked on 
his dread subject, mastered him. The Archbishop’s 
face was calm. A smile seemed to underlie its sur- 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 305 

face, a smile wliicli a properly polite sympathy would 
not allow to break forth. 

“I had not thought of that,” he said. "A man of 
the world would at once have counselled, ‘ Chercliez 
la femme.’ ” 

"If I could but find her,” said Quentin, “if I could 
but discover her whereabouts ! I know that I should 
not bring tales of the world to this quiet spot, to this 
holy enclosure.” 

The Archbishop had been regarding him calmly, 
waiting patiently for him to finish. 

“And what else should you bring if not tales of the 
world? Do we not live in the world? Are we not 
here because of the sorrows of the world? If it were 
not for that world outside there, beyond the gates, of 
what use should we be? As it is, we are here to 
strive and struggle and wrestle-” 

The Archbishop ceased suddenly. His tone, which 
had become somewhat exalted for him, was lowered. 

“Go on, Mr. Quentin,” he said. 

“ But tales like mine are so much out of your line. 
They are-” 

The Archbishop rested his elbow on the table and 
his head against the palm of his hand. “ Unfortu¬ 
nately,” he said, “such tales are not rare. We hear 
more of them perhaps than of any other.” 

Quentin had been pacing the room with nervous 
strides. Now he suddenly halted, and absently fin¬ 
gered the fringe of the curtain. “ I do not know why 
I came here,” he said. “I simply couldn’t help it. 
But now that I am here, what can you do for me? 
What can any one do for me? You can tell me per¬ 
haps where this woman may be found; but when I 
have found her, of what avail? ” 

20 




306 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“I can tell you where this woman can be found? ” 
The Archbishop sat upright and looked searcliingly 
at Quentin. “I? How should I know if you do not 
know yourself? ” 

“ I think that you do know, Your Grace. Believe 
me, I have not come here for the sake of anything but 
that of relieving my own mind, my own heart and 
soul. I think that you do know. May I ask Your 
Grace to tell me? ” 

“Not until I know more about it.” The Arch¬ 
bishop surveyed his questioner calmly. 

“Not until I know more about it,” he said again. 
“Remember, you have told me nothing as yet, Mr. 
Quentin; but from what I gather this is not a matter 
in which I should interest myself.” 

“I was afraid of this,” said Quentin. “I told you 
that mine is an utterly hopeless case.” He stood de¬ 
jectedly against the background of the subdued light 
of the window, his hands hanging at his sides. He 
went on hurriedly. “ This woman has no thought of 
me. I have no right to think of her.” 

“ You have learned something when you have got 
thus far,” said the Archbishop in a dispassionate 
tone. 

“ I have hardly more than touched her hand—not 
as often as I have touched your own. I have said no 
word of love to her, hardly of friendship. Why 
should you speak to me as if I were committing the 
unpardonable sin, Your Grace? ” 

“ I beg your pardon, Mr. Quentin. I might have 
known that you would do nothing unworthy.” He 
broke off. “But why pursue the lady if she can 
never be anything to you? And why come to me? 
Is she in my keeping? Do I know this lady? When 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 307 


I told you to come if you were in trouble, I did not 
anticipate—I did not dream-” 

“ I liardly know what I wish, what I am doing; but 
one thing I must know, and that is whether she is 
happy, whether she is at peace.” 

The Archbishop sat quiet for the space of a minute. 
Before his mind’s eye were passing the faces, so far 
as he could remember them, of the young novices 
who had been lately received into the church. Their 
youthful charms did not appeal to him except as addi¬ 
tions to the lambfold, as was right, and their faces 
had not remained in his memory. Then he began to 
speak. 

“ I cannot imagine whom you can mean. There was 
the young daughter of the de Valle family; she has 
taken the veil. There was Mademoiselle la Grange, 
but I think you did not know her.” 

“I know none of these people,” said Quentin. 
“The woman whom I seek is married.” 

The Archbishop arose and stood, one hand on the 
table. “ A woman who is married, you say ? And you 
come to ask me, a priest of the Church, to aid you in 
pursuing this woman who is not, who never can be, 
anything to you? I had not thought it of you, Mr. 
Quentin.” 

“ It is because I met you both under the same roof 
that I come to you.” 

“ We know so few of the same persons, Mr. Quen¬ 
tin. We were a very short time in the country to¬ 
gether, and there were only those English and Amer¬ 
ican ladies, and the Baroness and Mademoiselle, be¬ 
sides the family.” 

“It is of one of that family I-” 

“ Oli, the dear little Madame! ” smiled the Arch- 


308 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


bishop with a slight tremor of the lid. “ Why should 
you have made such a mystery about her? Her for¬ 
mer marriage—marriages—need be no barrier. She 
is living in— I can easily give you her address.” 

"I know where Madame lives,” said Quentin; “I 
have been to see her. It is—it is of her daughter I 
would ask.” 

At once a change passed over the Archbishop’s face. 
It was almost imperceptible. The smile remained, 
but it was as if frozen into a marble mask. He took 
a paper-knife from the table and bent it nearly double. 
Then he seated himself, turned half way in his chair, 
leaned back, pressed his lids so closely together that 
the color of the ball was hardly discernible and showed 
only in a sharp glint of light. He thrust out his chin, 
turned his face sidewise toward Quentin, and said in 
a very slow tone, with marked.emphasis: 

“ And what has a young man, an American, one who 
hardly knows her, to do with this married woman, to 
do with the Duchesse di Brazzia? ” 

Quentin sat silent. He had received a moral 
chill. 

“You do not answer,” said the Archbishop. The 
words came forth from his thin li£>s with a slow hiss¬ 
ing sound. The sympathy between the two seemed 
to have been extinguished. 

“ I have nothing to answer, ” said Quentin. “ There 
is no answer. I have nothing to do with her, God 
knows.” 

“ And you would, nevertheless, force yourself on this 
lady?” 

“ God forbid! ” said Quentin. 

“ The subject does not call for so much religious 
fervor,” said the Archbishop dryly, in a tone which 


THE AKCHBISHOP AM) THE LADY 309 


was a mixture of plain statement and sarcasm. 
“ Then pray what is your errand here? ” 

“I have told you,” said Quentin. “If you know 
where she is, will you tell me what I ask, whether 
she is happy? ” 

“I—I—hope so,” said His Grace. “If she is not, 
she soon will be.” 

“ Oh, my God! Have you inveigled her, have you 

persuaded her-Is she going to take the vows 

which will shut her forever away from the world, 
which will-” 

“I have inveigled her, as you say, into nothing, 
my friend. She came, the Duchesse di Brazzia, to me 
voluntarily. Why, I cannot tell you. What she said 
to me, it is needless to inform you, I cannot disclose. 
And why should I to—to you? I cannot tell what 
her future may be. We do not know; but rest as¬ 
sured, Mr. Quentin, that I am as anxious for her 
peace of mind as you can be; rest assured that I, who 
have known this dear child almost all her life, am as 
anxious for her earthly happiness as you, an utter 
stranger, can be. I may tell you that I am caring for 
her now, and when I tell you that she has asked that 
I will not reveal her whereabouts to Madame Petrof- 
sky, I am sure that you will respect that wish as I do.” 

“ Can you doubt it? ” asked Quentin. “ May I ask 
you one thing, Your Grace? ” 

“You may ask me many things, Mr. Quentin. I 
am asked many a thing that I cannot answer. I re¬ 
ceive many requests that I cannot grant.” 

“ Will you ask A1—, the Duchesse di Brazzia, if she 
will see me? I know that I have no right,” he fal¬ 
tered. “ I know that she is not, never can be, any¬ 
thing to me; but if I may see her once—I do not ask 


310 THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


to speak to lier. If yon will tell me if slie is happy, 
whether what happened at—at the Abbey has hurt 
her so that she is no more in love with life—if you 
will tell me-” 

“Mr. Quentin,” said the Archbishop, “I suppose 
you think that we priests have no sympathy because 
we have no feeling. Ah, there is your mistake. Just 

because our calling shuts us away from-” He 

broke off and pressed his lips together. 

“ Then there is hope of my seeing her ? ” burst in 
Quentin impetuously. 

“Certainly,” said His Grace, “if she wishes to see 
you, and why not? She is not a prisoner.” 

“Is she in this house? ” 

“No, Mr. Quentin. Badly as you think of us, you 
Protestants, I may assure you that I do not harbor 
women in my house. But I shall see her, and I will 
give her your message. I do not know you well, but 
I do know that, stubborn little heretic though she is, 
that lady’s conduct must ever be above reproach.” 

Quentin smiled joyously at the words, “stubborn 
little heretic.” The Archbishop saw his mistake in¬ 
stantly, and in a calm voice, trying to repair the 
breach in his walls, he continued: “ I am going to see 
her now. If you will wait for me until I see the rest 
of these good people, you may drive with me as far as 
I go your way; and when I know myself, I will write 
you a line, telling you whether the Duchesse will see 
you or no.” 

Quentin, beside himself with joy, waited in a small 
reception room for a half hour or more. His heart 
was beating tumultuously, his head ringing. The 
pulsations of his body kept time to the words, “I 
shall see her, I shall see her.” 



THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 311 


At tlie end of the half hour the Archbishop entered 
hurriedly. 

“ Come, my friend,” he said. “I have little time.” 

The carriage was standing at the door. The Arch¬ 
bishop gave an address to the coachman. It was in a 
very different quarter of Paris from that in which 
Quentin had taken up his abode. They drove for the 
space of ten minutes without speaking. Finally they 
drew up at the gates of a convent. The two men 
alighted. 

“You must leave me here, my friend,” said His 
Grace. “ I will communicate with you in a da}" or 
two. Let my man take you to the nearest cab stand 
and return here for me.” 

Quentin surveyed the great wall with deep interest. 
So that was where Alixe had found refuge! Of what 
use his long and patient watching in the Latin Quar¬ 
ter. He bowed to the prelate with a new respect, and 
was whirled away before his old friend had been swal¬ 
lowed up within the gates of the conventual walls. 
He took a cab and returned to his hotel. Of what 
use to seek those dreary rooms again? They were 
filled, it is true, with thoughts of Alixe, but with 
what sad ones; with the remembrance of long hours 
of watching and waiting. 


xxxrv. 


When His Grace’s carriage returned to the convent, 
the coachman was informed by the priest at the gate 
that the Archbishop was waiting at the entrance in 
the next street. When the carriage drove up, His 
Grace was standing on the opposite side of the great 
square, just within the gate. 

“ Thank you,” he said, with his lovely smile, to the 
holy women surrounding him. “ I thank you, Sister; 
I thank you, Mother. Another time I will stop. I 
merely walked through to ask of your well-being.” 

The gate was opened for him, and he drove off with 
hardly more than five minutes of his time spent within 
the enclosure. The carriage proceeded at once to the 
convent which Quentin had been watching for a month 
past. When the Archbishop had been admitted, he 
asked to see the Duchesse di Brazzia. It was not long 
before Alixe entered the Mother Superior’s parlor. 
She was clad in black. Her dress was not the conven¬ 
tual one, but the costume of the outside world. She 
smiled as she gave him her hand. “ You take a great 
deal of trouble about me, Your Grace. How good of 
you to come again.” 

“ I hope that you have thought over well what I have 
said to you, my daughter,” said the Archbishop. 

“ I have thought over it, I have prayed over it, Your 
Grace, but you must give me a little more time. I 


THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 313 


must go back to the Abbey after Mamasha has left, 
and think over it there.” 

“After she has left?” 

“ Yes, I have offered her the place for her honey¬ 
moon.” 

The Archbishop’s brow clouded. “ And why back 
to the Abbey ? ” he asked. 

“ Because, Your Grace, my friend, the one whom I 
have lost, Virginia Danielli, has often talked to me 
there about taking the vows. Perhaps had she lived 
we should have taken them together. I will never go 
back to my husband, to Bruno, again; on that I am 
determined. I do not feel it to be my duty, and I 
do feel that, if I spare him a handsome sum, he will 
not require it of me. I could not, I could not. Oh, 
Your Grace, I could not! ” Alixe began to tremble. 
Her face lost color. “ I could not bear what I have 
borne, again. I—I—do not know what I should do, 
what it would drive me to. Do not tell me that it is 
my duty to return.” 

“ I shall not tell you anything now,” said His Grace. 
“I have no right to control you.” He looked at her 
sadly; he saw that she was still the “ stubborn little 
heretic ” of whom he had spoken to Quentin, and he 
well knew that, should her husband insist upon her 
being restored to him, no one, the Church least of all, 
could prevent. 

“I have nothing to say,” said he. “Go back, my 
daughter, to the spot where our dear sister in the 
church implored you to join her and us. Think of 
her often. Go to the places where you sat together. 
Remember her words, and when you decide, come 
again to me. And now, to change the subject, I have 
a message for you from a friend of yours.” 


314 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


Alixe started visibly, and tlien regained her calm. 

“It is not yonr husband, do not be afraid. Mr. 
Quentin, who was at the Abbey with you all for a time, 
he it is who wishes to see and speak with you.” 

Alixe said nothing for the moment. She arose and 
walked to the centre table, filled a glass with water 
and drank it, essayed once or twice to speak, and 
then said in a faint voice, “I do not care to see him.” 

“As you will, my daughter,” replied the Arch¬ 
bishop, evidently relieved. “ It shall be as you 
say.” 

“Why should I be troubled with that old life?” 
said Alixe. “ I have done with it. I should like to 
see Gartha and Yalery once more before-” 

A beaming smile broke over the Archbishop’s face. 
“So you have almost decided.” 

“Almost,” whispered Alixe, “almost!” And then 
dropping her voice to a whisper, she said again, 
“Almost!” 

“We must have a conference with your husband,” 
said the Archbishop. “ We can have it at the Abbey. 
Why should you not remain quietly here until the 
wed—the—the—wedding is over”—the Archbishop 
too seemed to feel disturbed—“and when they are 
away from the Abbey, go down there? Your husband 
can come with me, and we will arrange matters.” 

“I should like to go there once more,” said Alixe. 
“ I love the hills and the birds and the gardens. I 
should love to go there once more. I should love to 
sit in the ruins once again, on that old branching 
tree, as I sat—as I sat-” 

The Archbishop arose. 

“Farewell, then, my daughter, until I see you again. 
Do you get out to take the air as often as you should? ” 



THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 315 


“ I walk in tlie garden, ” said Alixe, “ but the leaves 
are dusty and the path is rough.” 

“ All paths in this world are rough, my child,” said 
the Archbishop. “Good-bye.” 

He took her hand in his for a moment, then dropped 
it, went to the door and opened it. He was nearly 
outside when Alixe followed swiftly after him. 

“Your Grace,” she said, “Your Grace, I—I—have 
—have changed my mind.” 

The Archbishop’s face clouded over. 

“ What, so quickly ? ” he said. “ You have no con¬ 
victions. You will not enter the conventual life? ” 

“I have not changed my mind about that,” she an¬ 
swered, “ for it was never made up. Not about that. 
It is about seeing Mr. Quentin. I will see him at 
your house, if you give me permission. I will see 
him the day after to-morrow.” 

“At my house?” repeated the Archbishop. 

“ Yes, Your Grace. At your house, and I beg that 
you will be present.” 

“ You may be very sure that I will be present if you 
ask it,” said the Archbishop, a confident smile again 
flooding his face. And as he closed the outer door 
he added: “You may be very sure that I will, dear 
lady, in any event.” 


XXXV. 


At about this time Mr. Hilary Valery, sometime 
Kastaquouere, received the following letter. It was 
dated Paris, and began and ended as follows: 

“My dear Valery: I do wish that you would go 
to the Abbey and see that things are somewhat in 
order. There is no one there but Charles and Eugene, 
besides the miller and Pere and Mere Montrouge, 
and you know what use she is. Marie Montrouge is 
also at the mill, but Alixe took Nanette away with 
her. So inconsiderate! and only God knows what 
has become of them. I really have not the time to 
attend to matters at the Abbey. What with dress¬ 
makers and milliners, and having new corsets fitted, 
I am worn to a shred. You might take Garth a and 
go over there, and welcome us when we come. Have 
a house party, if you like; only keep my suite of 
rooms for us. It will be delightful to be received by 
a large number of gay people. I suppose the tenants 
could not very well welcome us, as the place really 
does not belong to me. But there might be some 
demonstration: white favors on the horses’ heads; 
wreaths over the road from the beginning of the Abbey 
wall. Something just to show that some one takes a 
little interest. 

“ Thank you for your kind draft. I will try to make 
it do; but you know what Baudnitz and Pacquin are. 
I do have a difficult time to make both ends meet. 
Even with no cook, and no valet, and no special maid, 
only' a little bonne a tout faire, it is almost impossible 
to struggle along with my limited means. You can 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 317 


take Mademoiselle down with you. Slie can see to 
Gartha and keep her from too much roaming about; 
she will be delighted. [‘That’s more than I shall 
be, ’ growled Yalery between puffs of his pipe.] 

She has been weeping every morning over my 
gifts, and begging to go on my wedding trip with me. 
Now, I ask you if that is fair? She says she will go 
in any capacity; but of course that is absurd. It 
would get into the papers, and we should be the laugh¬ 
ing stock of two continents. I am really too poor to 
keep Mademoiselle hanging on. If you want her for 
Gartha, do take her; otherwise she must seek some 
other position. [Yalery took care to repeat parts of 
this interesting letter to Mademoiselle, when he saw her 
later. When Mademoiselle heard them, she sniffed 
and remarked, ‘Elle crie toujours famine sur un tas 
de ble.’] 

“Now, dear Yalery,” the letter continued, “I have 
come to the serious part of my letter. I wonder if 
Alixe would lend me the family jewels. Not to keep, 
you know; just to wear at the wedding. I should 
hate to have Eldon’s family think I was a pauper. 
[‘Which you truly are, poor old Mamasha,’ mur¬ 
mured Yalery from clouds of smoke.] 

“ If I knew where Alixe was, I would write her my¬ 
self. As you do not appear very anxious to see me 
given away again, I hope that you will do the next 
best thing and go down to the Abbey at once. The 
wedding takes place two weeks from next Thursday, 
and we should like to go to the Abbey as soon as pos¬ 
sible. If you can get word from Alixe (did you ever 
know anything so heartless as her concealing her 
whereabouts from me when I have all these things on 
my mind?) ask her about the diamonds. I am anx¬ 
ious to know, and believe me, ever my dear Yalery, 

“ Your affectionate 

“ 4nnie Petrofsky. ” 

“P.S. If you could supplement the check just re- 


318 THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


ceived with one a little larger it would not be unac¬ 
ceptable.” 

“ I will not have the Weasel, ” said Gartha. “ I will 
have Marie Monrouge or Nanette, but I will not agree 
at the Weasel.” 

“She will have to go there, poor old thing,” said 
Valery. “ She has nowhere else to go.” 

“I should much prefer an English Miss,” said Gar¬ 
tha. “ Of all things I should prefer an English Miss. 
The Countess Blandina’s twins have an English Miss. 
She plays the game of tennis with them and also the 
game of shuttledoor. ” 

“ How would you like the Baroness? ” asked Valery. 

“I love the Baron,” said Gartha. “They say he 
sits in front of Maxim’s and drinks his life away. 
What is it to drink your life away ? They say it is a 
green thing called the absinthe.” 

“ How would you like the Baron and the Baroness 
too? ” said Valery. 

“And John Quentin,” said Gartha, “and Jan Mac- 
Donal’? ” 

“I’m afraid they wouldn’t agree. Mr. Quentin 
might be jealous of Jan MacDonald.” 

“Just what I should most like,” said Gartha. 

“ You are a second Mamasha,” said Valery. 

“Oh, Valery, you make me despise you.” 

“You are! You will grow up exactly like her.” 

“I am trying to mould myself on Alixe,” said Gar¬ 
tha. “John Quentin said the mould was broken. 
What did he mean, Valery? At the same time he 
said I could not mould myself upon a better model.” 

Valery raised his eyebrows and gave a long whistle. 
“Quentin, too? Ha, ha!” 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 319 


“Yes, isn’t it a shame? Oh, but a shame! And 
she doesn’t try at all. I asked her not to interfere, 
and she said she would not. Ah, mon Dieu! ” 

“I don’t believe she has seen him since you have,” 
said Valery, laughing. “Well, do you think you 
would like to go with the Weasel? ” 

“ Is it to go with you? ” 

“Yes, I suppose so. The fact is, Gartha, I’m a 
doocid deal too good-natured.” 

“And if I do not go, you will go in every case? ” 

“Yes, but I’ll take you through Paris, Gartha,” 
said Valery, warming to his subject, for he had been 
at an Irish country place now for one long month. 
“I shall go to the Louvre, and get some of those 
pretty frocks.” 

“Like the one the Lord Eldon remarked was a 
dainty little robe-” 

“ Much prettier than that. And I shall drive you 
in the Bois, and we will go up in La Grande Bone de 
Paris, and up in the Tour Eiffel, and up in all the bal¬ 
loons, and-” 

“Your arguments are very strong,” said Gartha, 
“ even with the Weasel at the other end. I think I will 
consent.” 

So it came about that Hilary and his little daugh¬ 
ter started one fine morning from Ballyrogan and, 
duly travelling and stopping in Paris, spending a dear, 
delightful day with Alixe in a shopping tour for Gar¬ 
tha, were at the Abbey a week before Lord Eldon and 
Madame could possibly put in an appearance. 


XXXVI. 


The day after Quentin parted from the Archbishop 
he received a note from the priestly young secretary, 
saying that His Grace would be happy to see Mr. 
Quentin at his house on the following morning at 
eleven o’clock. Quentin had no idea what this meant 
for him, whether Alixe had consented to see him, 
or whether the Archbishop merely wished to tell him 
that she had refused his request. With all his preju¬ 
dice against the priests of the Archbishop’s religion, 
he was minded to believe that His Grace might never 
convey his wish to Alixe, and perhaps would merely 
tell him that she had declined to see him. He was 
restless and felt as if he were all nerves. He walked 
over many miles of the Paris streets that day, and 
finally took an automobile and had a spin away to 
St. Germain, through Versailles and the forest of 
Marly. He ate his dinner on the terrace, and gazed 
afar at the steeples of St. Denis, where the kings of 
France are buried, and remembered as he stood there 
the anecdote of Louis the Fourteenth, who would 
never inhabit St. Germain because of that reminder 
of death which was ever in his view. When it was so 
dark that he could hardly see the road, he started 
back to Paris. His brake gave out, and he walked 
almost all the way, leaving his machine at a shop, 
where he had knocked up the slee£>y proprietor. He 




THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 321 


would not have done so careless a tiling ordinarily, 
but lie was living in a (Ream, and such actions showed 
him later how widely he had departed from his ordi¬ 
nary custom. In a dazed and wondering state he 
reached his rooms, bathed, ate some food, and then 
threw himself down to sleep; but he was, notwith¬ 
standing his tiresome night, early wide awake, dress¬ 
ing and looking at the clock with every passing mo¬ 
ment. At last he allowed himself to descend the stairs 
and call for a cab. It was ten minutes to eleven. 

Quentin rang the Archbishop’s bell, and was ush¬ 
ered into a different reception room from the one 
where he had sat on the last visit. He was its only 
occupant. Almost at once the young secretary came 
in and said: 

“This way, Monsieur,” and led him into the 
library. The first object that he saw was a tall figure 
standing by the window, the figure of a woman. She 
was clothed in black, and wore a veil. She was thin¬ 
ner than when he saw her last, and had a careworn 
look which was new to her. He advanced, and she 
stretched out her hand. 

“ How do you do, Mr. Quentin? I am very glad to 
see you.” 

The tone was so coldly kind, and the words so 
commonplace, that Quentin was conscious of a severe 
feeling of disappointment. 

“Ah, Mr. Quentin, how do you do?” They were 
His Grace’s cheery tones. There was no closing of 
the eyelids now, no sarcasm in the pleasant voice. 
The Archbishop spoke as one who stands on firm 
ground, as .one who is entrenched in a position from 
which nothing can dislodge him. 

“ Take a seat, Mr. Quentin; be seated, Duchesse. 

21 


322 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


It is some time since we three met at the Abbaye cle 
Bref.” 

Alixe took the chair His Grace offered her, and 
Quentin seated himself between the two. A thought 
flashed through his mind that this should ever be his 
position, could he manage it, now and always, be¬ 
tween the two. There would he stand and there 
would he fight until he found that she herself was 
willingly fighting against him and had firmly arrayed 
herself upon the other side. 

“ Have you been there lately, Mr. Quentin? ” asked 
Alixe, looking up at him quickly. He was gazing at 
the rope of silver beads and the cross set with ame¬ 
thysts that hung downward among the folds of her 
dress. When last he had seen the symbol it was but 
the last gift of a beloved friend. It possessed a dif¬ 
ferent significance now. 

He raised his eyes from the splendid ornament. 
He could not but feel how every accessory which this 
woman possessed, instead of adding to her charm, 
was itself made the more attractive because worn by 
her. 

“ No,” said Quentin, “ I have been over in England. 
I saw Miss Spencer at Eldon Towers.” 

“Ah, you have been there! And how was Lady 
Alfred? And dear Lord Eldon! I need not ask. I 
believe he is happy; they are both happy, I hope, 
Mamasha and he. Shall you attend the wedding, 
Mr. Quentin? ” 

“ I have not been asked. But I am invited by Val¬ 
ery to go to the Abbey for a house party soon. Are 
you coming? ” 

“No,” said Alixe, “I have told them that I cannot 
come. I wish them every happiness, as you must 


THE AKCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 323 


know, but I cannot mix witli the world again.” The 
Archbishop sat leaning back in his chair, smiling. 

“How can you leave the world? ” asked Quentin. 

The Archbishop frowned slightly and shifted his 
position. He clasped his fingers together, resting 
them under and against his wdiite upper teeth, and 
fixed a level gaze on Quentin. 

“I think that I shall be able to,” said Alixe, with 
a bright look at the Archbishop. Her hand uncon¬ 
sciously sought the cross. She held it as she spoke. 
“ God and His Grace helping me. There is one ob¬ 
stacle only, and we hope to overcome that, do we not, 
Your Grace? ” 

“We do, my dear daughter, we do.” 

“ And have you so quickly changed your faith, the 
faith of your fathers?” asked Quentin. “Have you 
had time to learn all their lessons by rote? ” 

The Archbishop frowned, but the frown was a se¬ 
cure one. He looked into the face of Alixe as she 
smiled back at Quentin, as if he were certain what 
her argument would be. Her lip was tremulous, but 
she spoke without a tremor in her voice. 

“ I have learned nothing by rote. They have taught 
me nothing except by their example. I see holy lives 
all around me. All that I crave is peace. His Grace 
promises me peace.” 

“Yes, I promise you peace,” said the Archbishop, 
“in—in time.” 

“ I hoped that you would give me your address that 
I might see you sometimes,” said Quentin. “I have 
taken rooms close to the convent of St. Saviour’s. I 
can look into the little corner of the garden. I thought 
I might see you there.” Both Alixe and the Arch¬ 
bishop had started at these words. “ I knew that it 


324 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


was no affair of mine, your going away like this; but 
I feared that—you must pardon me, Your Grace, I am 
perhaps prejudiced—I was afraid that you were being 
coerced against your will.” 

“ Oh, no, no! ” said Alixe. She turned on him a 
smile full of confidence in her new surroundings. 

“ I found that you were not at that convent, because 
the Archbishop took me to another quite on the other 
side of Paris, when he went to see you-” 

Alixe raised her brows almost imperceptibly at her 
old friend. He shook his head faintly at her, as if to 
say,“All’s fair in war.” 

“I hoped that you would let me see you some¬ 
times,” repeated Quentin nervously. 

“ What good would that do, Mr. Quentin? You and 
I have nothing in common. My husband is the only 
man to whom I should go for advice unless I appeal 
to a father of the Church, and my husband’s permis¬ 
sion I hope to obtain ere long. That is the only im¬ 
pediment to my entering a sisterhood.” 

Quentin had risen and stood with his arms folded. 

“ The only impediment! ” he repeated. 

Alixe arose and the Archbishop also. 

“And now good-by,” said Alixe. “It is good-by 
for all time.” There was the suspicion of a tear in 
her voice. She coughed and quickly controlled her¬ 
self. “ I am fond of my friends, Mr. Quentin, and I 
connect you with my dear Abbey. I often think of 
my happy days there, and of the friends whom I met 
there and of the ones—the one I have lost. I think 
that you would have been a friend to me, too, could I 
have remained in the world; but, believe me, I am 
doing the best thing for us all.” Alixe looked down¬ 
ward, ceased suddenly, and put her hand to her breast 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 325 


witli an exclamation of dismay. Quentin, who feared 
that she was ill, sprang forward, but saw at once that 
from the folds of her dress there hung a tiny chain 
whose catch was loose. She was holding it in her 
fingers, looking at the hanging ends. 

“What is it, my dear? ” 

“I have dropped something, Your Grace. Mr. 
Quentin, promise me you will not move, promise! 
Dear Archbishop, do not take a step, I implore you. 
You will crush it. It is an ornament I wear in mem¬ 
ory of a friend.” Alixe was down on her knees 
searching the floor. 

“Virginia Danielli,” whispered the Archbishop to 
Quentin, “ a great factor in her memory for me and 
against you! ” Alixe was searching everywhere, 
groping, groping. Slowly rising at last, she stood, 
peering beneath sofas and chairs. 

“ I will have it found, and send it to you,” said His 
Grace. 

“ No, dear Archbishop, no! ” she answered. “ I 
must have it before I go away.” 

Suddenly from a far corner Quentin perceived the 
shining of a ray of light. He started toward it, but the 
older man was before him. Together they stooped, and 
Quentin, out of respect to the Archbishop, allowed him 
to pick up the gem. As His Grace advanced toward 
Alixe she almost snatched the ring from his hand, so 
anxious did she seem to regain possession of it. 

“You must greatly prize it,” said he; “allow me 
to aid you ”; but she had closed her fingers upon the 
treasure, and was pushing it within the palm of her 
black glove. 

“It—it—is something of Gartha’s,” said Alixe. 
“She lost it in—in—my room—one day.” 


326 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“And you are keeping it to restore to lier? ” 

“Yes—if—she—asks it.” 

Alixe hurriedly pushed open the door. “ Good-by, 
dear Archbishop; good-by, Mr. Quentin.” Her trail¬ 
ing gown swept through the opening; so swift was 
her flight that the door had closed upon her before 
the two men could realize that she was gone. 

“ Ah, that is so like her. That is her nature. So 
loving and faithful,” said the placid old man. “The 
little child’s ring! She was wearing it around her 
throat beneath her gown. You saw where the chain 
had escaped and hung loose—” and then breaking 
off— “ You see how hopeless it all is, Mr. Quentin. 

How little she cares to take up her earthly life again. 
I think she is dead to all earthly friendships, except, 
perhaps, the purest of loves, and that for little Gar- 
tha. She intends, as you heard her say, to come into 
the Church and enter a sisterhood if her husband will 
give his permission. And you see how worse than 
foolish it would be for her to keep up even a sem¬ 
blance of friendship with a young man like yourself. 
Such friendships lead to no good. You see that, do 
you not? ” 

“Yes, I see,” said Quentin. His tone was so joy¬ 
ous that the Archbishop raised his eyes in astonish¬ 
ment. The color had come to the young man’s face, 
the smile to his lip. There was a light in his eye 
that had not been there for many a day. “ I see, 
Your Grace, I see,” he repeated. 

For had he not seen and recognized the lost charm 
for which Alixe had searched so anxiously? The 
charm which she had worn about her neck close to her 
heart, the ring which he had given Gartha? 

“And now, my young friend, good-by. Give up 


THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 327 


this foolish sentiment. Go home and marry one of 
your estimable American girls, they are all beautiful 
and they are all rich, and do not try to meddle with 
foreign duchesses. Above all things, do not imagine 
for a moment that, when once the Church has her grasp 
upon such a woman as that, you, puny worldling that 
you are, can change her mind.” 

“ I thank you for your goodness, Your Grace,” said 
Quentin. “You have put new life in me. And 
whether that woman immures herself within one of 
your cloisters or no, whether she takes the veil or 
returns to the world, I shall ever be the happier for 
what has passed here to-day. I thank you. Good- 
by.” 

“That is rather a serious quantity to reckon with,” 
said the Archbishop as he touched his bell; “ a very 
stubborn, determined character. But he can do noth¬ 
ing ; the fates, Alixe, and I are against him. Against 
such a combination who can stand?” And then to 
his secretarjq “Send in the next visitor.” 


XXXYII. 


Quentin returned to his hotel, his heart singing 
for joy. He sat thinking deeply most of the afternoon, 
going over and over again in his mind the scenes at 
the Archbishop’s. At last, about four o’clock, he de¬ 
cided to go to the apartment on the Rive Gauche and 
give notice to the proprietor that after the month was 
up he should not need the rooms. Why should he 
remain in that quarter of the town if Alixe was far re¬ 
moved from him in another? When he arrived, the 
proprietor was not at home, but Quentin nevertheless 
went up to his apartments. He did not drag himself 
up the circular stairs with slow and lagging step, but 
sprang like a boy off for a holiday. He unlocked his 
door and went in. The rooms looked bright and 
sunny, and evidently had been well cared for during 
the days when he had not thought it necessary to visit 
them. He disliked the idea of giving them up, for 
although he felt certain that Alixe was in that other 
religious house, far removed from him across the 
river, still this was the place where he had sat and 
thought of her, dreamed of her; and everything in the 
room reminded him of her, for as he had looked at 
the different objects about him, his thoughts had 
ever been of Alixe in the different phases in which he 
had seen her. Here was the little white hat, a pen¬ 
wiper, which he had bought because it reminded him 
of the Russian hat which she had always worn at the 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 329 


Abbey. There was a tiny print of a church, whose 
trees peered above the ruined walls, and brought to 
mind the place where he had spent a few blissful 
days. There, hanging opposite his couch, was the 
picture cut from an illustrated paper, of a tall and 
lovely woman dressed in black, a rope of beads around 
her waist, in her hand a crucifix. This vision was in 
his mind’s eye as he pushed through the open win¬ 
dow, and went out upon the little balcony. He 
walked along to the further corner, which was screened 
by fir trees and plants; and looking over their tops 
into the garden, he saw the woman of whom he was 
thinking. She was sitting on a bench, her small 
black hat was on her knee. She was looking at her 
companion, whom Quentin perceived at a glance to be 
the Archbishop. He seemed to be talking earnestly, 
and she was listening with deep attention. 

Quentin could hardly restrain himself from calling 
across the noisy street, “ So you thought to fool me, 
Your Grace. But I have found you out! ” But 
even had he called, his voice could not have carried 
above the din of the moving vehicles; and he must 
content himself with gazing and gazing upon the 
pair, rather on the woman sitting in the garden be¬ 
low. His Grace and Alixe remained for a quarter 
hour, and then he rose. She gave him her hand, and 
he raised the other above her head as if in blessing. 
The gesture struck a chill to Quentin’s heart. It 
seemed that she must have finally promised that 
which the Archbishop had asked of her. Then they 
turned. Alixe picked up her hat, which had fallen 
to the ground, and he lost sight of them beneath the 
arching trees of the garden. 

It was but the work of a moment for Quentin to 


330 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


awake from his daze, run in through the window, 
seize his hat, fling out of the room, and descend the 
stairs. He sprang downward with boyish leaps and 
jumps. As he came into the street he was surprised 
to see how the dusk was creeping on. He hurried 
along, hoping to meet the Archbishop at the convent 
gate. The pavement was wellnigh bare of pedes¬ 
trians ; but as he hastened, some one was there ahead 
of him, some one whose shabby black, so familiar and 
hateful to his eye, told him that it was Halle, the dis¬ 
honored priest. He was waiting at the corner of the 
street, his body hidden by the angle of the wall, his 
head just peering around the corner. Danger to the 
Archbishop was Quentin’s first thought. Had he not 
been really attracted by this delightful old prelate, 
still his first thought would have been to protect 
him from a man whom he considered bad enough to 
commit any dark deed; but he was fond of the Arch¬ 
bishop, notwithstanding their disagreements, and he 
was not fond of Robert Halle. He determined in a 
twinkling to obstruct the priest’s plans and warn the 
Archbishop. He came up behind Halle, and walking 
round in front of him, he said, “ Ah, Father Halle, 
waiting to see the Archbishop? ” 

Halle started at the unexpected voice coming so 
suddenly out of the dusk, and turned on Quentin with 
a face livid with either fear or rage, perhaps a combi¬ 
nation of both. His air of surprise was natural, but 
not the tone with which he greeted the newcomer. 

"Ah, Mr. Quentin,” he said, "I did not expect to 
see you here.” 

"No,” said Quentin, "I don’t suppose you did. 
You know His Grace is inside, do you not? ” 

" His Grace? ” Halle put on an air of surprise. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 331 


“ Perhaps it will not be difficult for you to imagine, 
Mr. Quentin, tliat the Archbishop, after his injustice 
and cruelty to me, is the last man in all Paris whom 
I wish to see.” 

"Be careful, then, how you appear to wish to see 
him, Mr. Halle,” said Quentin, and walked onward to 
where His Grace was just issuing from the gateway. 
As he approached the Archbishop, Halle slunk back 
around the corner and disappeared in the night. 

Quentin advanced into the ray of the lamp. At first 
the old man did not recognize the younger one, but 
as Quentin came out under the faint light of the lan¬ 
tern which hung above the gate, the Archbishop 
started. 

“Ha, Mr. Quentin! Again in this quarter? Now 
tell me, I beg of you, what is your interest over here 
on the Rive Gauche? ” 

“ I told you before, Your Grace, but that is not what 
I wish to speak of now. May I get into your car¬ 
riage with you and ride a little way ? ” 

The Archbishop, unaccustomed to so much freedom 
from younger men, bowed coldly and entered his car¬ 
riage. “Get in, Mr. Quentin,” he said, courteously 
giving his self-invited guest the seat upon his right. 
“ I can take you but a short distance. I must stop in 
the Boulevard St. Germain.” 

As the horses started Quentin turned to the Arch¬ 
bishop. 

“ Have you seen that man Halle lately, Your Grace?” 

“ Halle? No! You mean the priest? I have never 
seen him since I denounced him. I suppose you 
met him at the Abbey. I hear that he was there and 
that the owner is very stubborn about receiving him 
there. That is almost the only topic on which we 


332 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


disagree at present. She imagines him wronged, 
that circumstances are against him, that he will be 
able to clear himself some day. It was not so much 
the money that he took, though that was a consider¬ 
able sum; but it was that dreadful deed, stealing 
from the Church. Why, Mr. Quentin, if Halle had 
robbed us of the vessels of the sacrament I should 
hardly have been more shocked. ” 

“ I have reason to think that he has no love for you, 
Your Grace.” 

“Of that I am well aware,” said the Archbishop 
sadly, “ but the poor wretch cannot harm me. My 
position in the matter and' my proofs are too well 
known to those in authority.” 

“He can do harm to your person, Your Grace. 
That is why I asked to drive with you a little way. 
I had just stumbled upon him. He was lurking past 
the corner of the wall back there in the side street. 
He was, I think, watching for your exit from—•—” 

“ Oh, no! Mr. Quentin, ” said the Archbishop, smil¬ 
ing incredulously. “ Badly as I think of him, I can¬ 
not believe that a man who has once been a priest of 
the Church would stoop to commit such a crime. He 
may have wanted to speak to me. He cannot come to 
my house. My servants have had orders not to allow 
him to enter. He had his day and his trial. Per¬ 
haps he thought this his only chance of meeting me. 
Should he write and make an appointment, I would see 
him once more, if only to tell him how hopeless these 
appeals are. I offered, in the first place, to send him 
to a brotherhood, one of the remote, silent brother¬ 
hoods, where no word is spoken. That he would 
have none of. He wishes to be again an honored 
priest, officiating in a church here in Paris. This I 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 333 


was not willing that he should be, and what I ask is 
listened to by those who decide such matters. I can¬ 
not consider it a sincere repentance, if he is not will¬ 
ing to wear out his life in whatever part of our Mas¬ 
ter’s work the Church sets for him to do. But that 
he is willing to play the part of a criminal, I should 
not be willing to believe.” 

Quentin could but feel that the Archbishop was 
too trusting. His anxiety had been added to by the 
remembrance of Halle’s sudden hiding of his hand be¬ 
hind him. He would have turned and grappled with 
the priest to discover what he had thus secreted, but 
for hearing the gate open, and wishing to warn the 
Archbishop before he could drive away. 

“ I will not argue longer in that direction, Your 
Grace, ” said Quentin; “ but if you have time to listen, 
let me tell you my experience with this precious 
priest. ” Whereupon he began to relate to the prelate 
all that he knew of Halle, his endeavor to frighten 
him (Quentin) out of the chalet rooms, the scene with 
St. Aubin and the workman under the wall at night, 
and his final encounter with Halle on the hilltop. 
The Archbishop listened attentively. When Quentin 
had finished, lie said, “You should have left the cha¬ 
let, I think, as they requested. I cannot imagine 
why he should be so angry with you, even if he 
thought you were spying on him and his inventions. 
It sounds all very absurd and ridiculous, not to say 
rude and ill-bred; but I can see nothing criminal in 
it. I suppose, if they carry out their tests satisfac¬ 
torily, St. Aubin will give Halle some sort of percent¬ 
age-” 

“ For doing his dirty work for him,” burst in Quen¬ 
tin. 


334 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“Isn’t that a rather strong expression, Mr. Quen¬ 
tin? ” returned the Archbishop mildly. “ What proof 
have you that there is any such thing as what you 
call ‘dirty work ’ about their project? ” 

“Believe me, Your Grace,” said Quentin earnestly, 
“ there is something wrong when men try to frighten 
away, by such childish methods, a guest and stranger 
from the rooms which have been assigned him by his 
hostess.” 

The carriage drew up at the pavement. “ Here is 
my destination,” said the Archbishop. He sat for a 
moment, his hand on the catch of the door, and turned 
toward Quentin. 

“I thank you much, Mr. Quentin, for your inten¬ 
tion to be kind. Whether you are mistaken in your 
surmises or no, you meant to do me a favor, and be¬ 
lieve me, I fully appreciate it. But do not fear for 
me. I am not afraid of Robert Halle or forty thou¬ 
sand unfrocked priests, if there could be a possibility 
of such a number, which God forbid! Such cases as 
his are rare. That makes them perhaps, in one way, 
all the more distressing. We are not accustomed to 
such a display of cupidity, and that is the reason—” 
the Archbishop released the handle and turned toward 
Quentin still further—“ that is the reason why it has 
seemed so strange. Halle had no reason to steal. 
He was provided for, as are all of our clergy. He had 
no need of money. That is the only thing that I 
cannot understand about the matter.” 

“ The money was wanted to put into these so-called 
inventions,” said Quentin. 

“St. Aubin had an abundance,” said the Archbish¬ 
op; “that was a most foolish thing, taking his wife’s 
money to waste on these expensive experiments.” 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 335 


“Halle may liave wished to add his share,” said 
Quentin. “ What the cause may be, I do not know; 
but that pair of worthies are hand in glove in whatever 
schemes they are concocting. Of that I saw enough 
to feel sure. I really think Halle the better man of 
the two.” 

The Archbishop smiled indulgently. 

“A little prejudice, my friend, a little prejudice 
perhaps. We all have our prejudices, you know. 
We cannot always account for our prejudices.” He 
opened the door. 

“Let me go with you to the house door, Your 
Grace.” 

The Archbishop laid his hand on Quentin’s. “I 
thank you from the bottom of my heart, and none the 
less because I know how utterly foolish are your fears 
for me. Even had Halle a plan to injure me, he could 
not have reached this place, so remote from where you 
saw him, by this time. Do not fear for me, my friend. 
Take my carriage and drive to your hotel; then send 
it back for me. Good-by. I did not expect to see 
you so soon again. You know you bid me an heroic 
and an eternal farewell this morning; but man pro¬ 
poses, and it is God who disposes of us all for His 
own great ends.” 

With these last words the Archbishop strode across 
the pavement, and when he was well within the door, 
Quentin told the coachman where to take him. All 
the way back to his hotel he was thinking of the last 
turn of the Archbishop’s head and the rare and 
kindly look with which he bowed him a farewell. 


xxxvm. 


Valery and Gartha had now been at the Abbey for 
about a week. Alixe heard from Valery almost every 
day. His letters were full of moanings about the des- 
olateness of the place. 

“It is no more as it was, Alixe,” he said. “I miss 
you, and the English girls, and Quentin, and dear old 
Mamasha. She does make a place seem so comfort¬ 
able, if you only rub her the right way. How she does 
purr and lick her pretty paws. I hope Eldon will 
succeed in putting butter on them. I suspect the but¬ 
ter will be in the shape of a great many handsome 
rings. I went into Spaulding’s to buy Gartha a ring, 
in the place of one which she says she lost in your 
room at the Abbey, and whom should I behold but 
Mamasha looking at a necklace. I stood behind a 
vase, and I heard the poor little soul actually bar¬ 
gaining for the rent of it, just for the wedding! The 
truth is, Alixe, she wrote me some time ago, asking 
that I would try to get you to let her wear the Duke’s 
diamonds just for that day, and I forgot all about it. 
Where are they? Can I get them if I come to Paris? 
If you will give me an order for them, I will send 
them to her, first obtaining a paper signed by her that 
they are to be returned in good condition the day 
after the wedding. Dear little Mamasha! You know 
she doesn’t always know the difference between meum 
and tuum, and the necklace wouldn’t either after it 
had been in her possession for a few decades. I sent 
her another draft the other day. Don’t send any 
more. She has all that a respectable widow woman 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 337 


of her years should require. Let Eldon do the rest. 
Really, Mamasha does press the button somewhat 
often. 

“ Gartha longs to see you. She talks always of 
that rare day in Paris when you went about shopping 
with us, and we lunched at Armenonville. Why can’t 
you be a Christian, Alixe, give up your fads, and come 
here for the house party? I'll send you a telegram 
some day that will frighten you out of your senses, 
and you will come before you know it. 

“ Gartlia’s love and mine. 

“ Ever yours, 

Yalery. 

“P.S.—Mademoiselle is here pulling as long a face 
as one with a face of the shape of hers can. She says 
that she never expected to live at the Abbey without 
company, but is somewhat cheered when I tell her 
that we are to have a regular house party next week. 
Gartha will have nothing to say to her. She now calls 
her the cacomistle, having seen one of those animals 
in the Zoo in London. Gartha is down at the mill 
all day long, or wandering round the place alone. I 
cannot play lady’s maid or child’s nurse at my age. 
The truth is, I’m too good-natured for this world. 
When I’m dead, I should be canonized. Don’t you 
think it would be somewhat more consistent in you to 
come here and look after your sister’s child, than to 
be hobnobbing with the Religious in Paris, no matter 
how fascinating they nmy 7 be? Allaire left Gartha to 
you, you know, Alixe; and really I can do nothing 
with her. The only persons to whom she will speak 
are Marie and Pierre Monrouge. What she does at 
the mill I don’t know, but I expect to hear that she 
has been ground up in the wheel, or drowned in the 
pond, or has fallen off the wall, or out of the hay 
loft-” 

There was a hurried knock at the door. 

“Come in,” called Alixe. 

22 


388 THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


The sister who entered, one of the serving sisters, 
had in her hand a bine envelope. “ A message, Ma¬ 
dame,” she said. 

Alixe took the envelope from the sister, and tore it 
open. Her fingers trembled. Where and from what 
direction would it strike? 

“Come at once,” it ran. “Gartha is injured.” 

At first, every trace of color left her cheek. She 
went to the nail where hung her black bonnet and 
took it down. She looked into her purse to see if she 
had money, she sought for her gloves and a plain 
wrap, and then, suddenly, she burst into a merry 
laugh. The sister, who waited to see if there was any 
answer, looked up astonished. So merry a laugh she 
had not heard for many a long day. 

“ Thank you, you may go,” said Alixe; “it is noth¬ 
ing.” 

She picked up Valery’s letter from where it had 
fallen on the floor, and with a smile on her face began 
to read it over. When she came to the line which 
read, “I’ll send you a telegram some day that will 
frighten you out of your senses,” she laughed again. 

“ For shame, Valery,” she cried aloud, “ for shame, 
to frighten me so about the child.” 

She finished Valery’s letter, then put her bonnet 
and gloves away. Then she took her garden hat and 
went out to the seat in the corner of the enclosure. 

Alixe sat there thinking. All that had passed in 
the last few days came back to her. She thought 
often of Quentin, of his wish that she should be 
happy. She remembered, and not for the first time, 
what he said about taking an apartment in the same 
street, where he could watch her, and, suddenly, she 
looked upward. There, across the street behind the 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 339 


firs and flowers, stood Quentin himself. He smiled 
and waved his hand. She smiled back at him, but 
shook her head and turned away. The sister was 
coming toward her with a second envelope. 

Alixe ran toward the messenger and tore open the 
telegram, and this time she did not laugh. 

“ Come, for God’s sake,” it ran. “Gartha has been 
burned. She may not live to see you. She asks for 
you constantly.” 

With hurried step Alixe sought the Mother Supe¬ 
rior, showed her the message, explained the cause of 
her ignoring the first one, wrote an answer to be sent, 
and was driving to the station ten minutes after the 
second message had been read. She was fortunate in 
finding a train starting in a few moments. She was 
glad when she found that none had been despatched 
since she received the first telegram. Alixe took her 
seat, impatient and nervous. The two hours and a 
half seemed like two years. She wondered what it 
could be. Yalery had said that Gartha was always at 
the mill. Had there, by chance, been a fire at the mill? 
Had the house burned down, and the child, her sis¬ 
ter’s little Gartha, been crushed by falling walls? 
Every horror that anxious love could conjure up to a 
terrified soul came rushing to her distracted mind. 
When the train stopped at some way station and lost 
time, Alixe felt as if she should go mad. 

"What are we stopping for? ” she asked the guard. 
“ What are all these delays? ” 

The guard, ignorant, as usual, on the smaller roads 
in France, and a fatalist, as on most others, smiled 
subserviently, shrugged his shoulders, thrust the 
palms of his hands outward, and lounged slowly down 
the track. 


340 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


When at last Alixe reached the little station in the 
valley, she found Pierre Monrouge awaiting her. 
She took her seat in the brougham with trembling 
limbs. 

“What is it, Pierre Monrouge?” she asked. “Is 
the house burned? Is the mill burned? Where were 
you all that you could not attend to Mademoiselle 
Gartha? ” 

“Mademoiselle Gartha will obey no one but the 
Duchesse, that the Duchesse knows,” said Pierre 
Monrouge respectfully. 

Ah! Alixe knew but too well that, had she been with 
Gartha, the horror, whatever it was, might not have 
happened. Here her duty lay—not back there in 
Paris, away from all she loved. 

“It was in the chalet, Madame,” and nothing more 
could be got out of Pierre Monrouge. That the fire 
had been in the chalet was very plain to Alixe, for as 
they passed it by, she saw that the outer walls had 
partly fallen in, and that the smoking bricks lay upon 
the road. The horses neighed and snorted, but the 
workmen who were clearing away the debris seized 
the bridle and led them clear, and Alixe was at the 
gate. 

Yalery met her as it opened. 

“Where is she? ” asked Alixe. 

“ In your room. She would be taken nowhere else.” 

Alixe flew across the terrace, through the salon, and 
up the stairs. She waited at the door of her chamber, 
gathering courage to enter. 

“I heard you,” called a piping voice; “the Weasel 
has just gone down the other way.” 

Alixe passed through into her own great chamber. 
There in the centre of the bed, the one which Miss 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 341 


Spencer had likened to the Great Bed of Ware, was a 
bundle of white. Alixe bent over it and kissed it, her 
tears falling fast. 

“ Oh, my little Gartlia! And I away from you! ” 

“Ah! nom de Dieu, you certainly ought to have 
been here, Alixe. You know very well that I will 
mind no one but you. Not Yalery always. But I 
cannot blame you leading your gay life in Paris! 
I am sorry to take you away from it, Alixe,” Gartha 
gave a long sigh, Alixe a longer one; “but Yalery 
says this is your plain duty.” 

“Where does it hurt you, darling?” 

“ Well, pretty much all over. The reason you can’t 
see my face is that they have bound me up. I do not 
know when they did it. They put something to my 
nose; it was lovely, but of an odor! Oh, but of an 
odor! or they should not have did it,” Gartha spoke 
slowly, she was tired. “ Have—you—come—to stay ? ” 

“ Yes, yes, my darling, to stay ! To stay forever! ” 

“ Did my father, did Yalery esplain to you, Alixe? ” 

“ No, darling, I hardly saw him. I came directly 
up to you. But you must not talk so much. Your 
father will tell me later.” 

“I must tell you a little,” said Gartha in a weak 
voice. “ You see I will mind no one but you. My lit¬ 
tle mamma gave me to you, and when the Weasel, I 
mean the cacomistle, said, ‘Donot!’ I did it. Je 
m’en bats l’ceil.” 

Alixe was laughing and crying together. 

“ Well, one fine day I went where I had been forbid¬ 
den to go.” 

“ One day? ” 

“ Oh! Alixe, do not stories begin always that way. 
It was this morning, but I cannot help that—I went 


342 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


to my Uncle Bruno’s rooms. Oh, how I hate my 
Uncle Bruno! I have not been there since—since, 
oh, well, quand j’etais gosse.” 

Alixe smiled indulgently at the forbidden argot. 

"Well, you went into your Uncle Bruno’s rooms. 
How did you get in, by the way? ” 

“Marie Monrouge had been clean, clean—le net- 
toy age, you know, Alixe. Uncle Bruno wrote to her 
to while no one was here. It seems that he did not 
understand that Mamasha would marry with the Lord 
Eldon and all of us was coming, and nat—naturally I 
went in with Marie Monrouge.” 

“Yes, it was very natural,” said Alixe. 

“ Eh bien! while Marie Monrouge was in the fur¬ 
ther room, au fond, you know, Alixe, suddenly I saw 
a cunning little box, but of the cunningest. I opened 
it-” 

“Poor little Pandora!” said Valery’s voice. He 
came and stood at the foot of the bed. 

“I am tired, let—Valery—tell-•” 

“I will tell Alixe down-stairs.” Valery put his fin¬ 
ger on his lip, and soon there was quiet in the room, 
hardly broken by Gartha’s soft breathing. 

When Alixe could withdraw her fingers from Gar¬ 
tha’s, she went away with Valery, to learn how the 
little girl had started some machinery in motion by 
turning a small lever. Then, hearing an ominous 
ticking and buzzing, she became frightened, and ran 
toward the door. She was on the landing when the 
explosion took place, and because of that probably 
escaped death. Marie Monrouge was in the third 
chamber, but beyond being terribly frightened by the 
falling of bricks, she was taken out unhurt. 

Alixe now took upon herself all the care of the child. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 343 


She allowed the trained nurse to do only what she 
herself was not competent to do. After a few days 
the physician sent for from Paris to consult with the 
doctor from the hospital in the village, said that he 
felt sure that Gartha would recover the use of her 
limbs and be as she was before. There would be 
scars, but not on her face. 

On the sixth day of Alixe’s presence at the Abbey, 
Gartha had the bandage removed from her face. She 
was lying back on the pillows, and as usual, when not 
too tired, was talking. 

“ Alixe, did you ever hear of any one being married 
on her bed of death, on her lit de mort? ” 

“I do not know,” said Alixe; “yes, I believe I 
have.” 

“ Bien! the Weasel told me of such a thing. Now 
will you do a thing that shall please me? ” 

“ Yes, dear, what is it? ” 

“Put on your halo, Sainte Vierge.” 

“Oh, Gartha! Do not say such things.” 

“ The Russian hat! The Russian hat! I will have 
you in the Russian hat. The Weasel has read me a 
tale once about a lady who was dying, and she asked 
to be married to her lover on her bed of death. Have 
you gone for the halo, Alixe ? ” 

“Yes, Gartha, I have it on,” said Alixe, coming 
back to the bedside. 

“ You must excuse me, ” said Gartha, “ my eyesight 
is a little impaired. That is what the English doctor 
from Paris said it would be—” imitating the pom¬ 
pous tone of that physician—" ‘ but for a time, dear 
little mademoiselle, only for a time. * She asked to be 
married (the lady, I mean) with her lover on her lit de 
mort,” said Gartha, resuming her narrative. “He 


344 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 

did not like lier very much, that is bad when one likes 
not one’s femme, but as she would be dead and gone in 
a few short days, he consents. Eh bien! The priests 
came, and they bring all the necessary things, I do 
not know what they are, and the lover stood up by 
the lady’s bed, and they were married fast and firm, 
when suddenly, lo, and behold! sapristi! if you 
believe, that lady begins to improve. Every morning 
when the lover, now the husban’, comes to the door, 
and whines, 4 How is my dear wife this morning? ’ 
the nurse answers, 4 She is much improved, Mon¬ 
sieur. Galloping at a pace, oh, but a pace! toward 
the health.’ 

44 Finally, one fatal day, she conceives the idea of 
getting up and standing behind the door. So up 
comes the mari and says, 4 How is my dear wife this 
morning? ’ when suddenly out she springs to him, say¬ 
ing, 4 My dear lover, I am well! ’ With this the hus¬ 
ban’ was so surprise that, sapristi! down he drops 
dead from mal atroce, and the wife lives happy ever 
after.” 

Alixe and Yalery were laughing at the termination 
of this sad story, when Gartha began to speak again. 

44 Do not laugh or make merry at my espense, my 
dear aunt and father. I think I am, myself, near 
death. So I beg of you to call my faithful servants 
round me and send for John Quentin to marry me, 
that we may look our last on the hillside where he 
licked Robert Halle, and I may rest easy in my grave.” 

The tears were running down Yalery’s face, but not 
from grief. 44 How they do stuff children with that 
stilted nonsense,” he said. 44 But suppose you should 
get well, Gartha, what would John Quentin do then? ” 

44 That is just the very greates’ trouble,” said Gar- 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 345 


tha earnestly. “ If I was sure that I was indeed struck 
with death, that I had the final coup, I would have 
you send for him, but as I am not quite certain, I 
might get well and it would be—a—embarrassment of 
him. It might be a embarrassment de moi aussi, 
Yalery. And it would embarrass Jan McDonal’ still 
the more. I have promise to marry Jan McDonal’. 
I would send for him now, but he could not get here 
in time, and as long as I am struck with death, it 
makes but little matter who the man may be.” 

“Gartlia, you will be the death of me!” shouted 
Yalery. '" I think I’ll run up to Paris to-morrow. I 
warned off the Eldons, and you may be sure dear old 
Mamasha doesn’t want any death-bed scenes, but I 
might bring Quentin down.” 

" I hope that you will do nothing of the kind,” said 
Alixe; "we are not ready for visitors, Yalery, and I 
am in no state to see any one.” 

"Do you really think I shall get well? ” asked Gar- 
tha in a disappointed tone. “ Because if you are not 
quite, quite sure, sur et certain, you might ask John 
Quentin to come back with you, and his Emnunce, to 
commit the services.” 


XXXIX. 


So it came about that Alixe and Gartha were left 
alone. Alixe had moved the child to a small couch 
where she could care for her more easily. At night 
the great iron doors of the Abbess’s room were dou¬ 
ble locked and bolted, and Alixe felt secure as in a 
fortress. 

It was on the night that Yalery had left the Abbey. 
Alixe was in her bed; Gartha asleep. Suddenly, out 
of the stillness of the night, there came a knocking on 
the iron door. Alixe opened to find Marie Monrouge 
standing there, her eyes staring wide. 

“Oh, Madame,” she said, “Father Halle is here, 
and he says that he must see you.” 

Alixe had not time to more than throw on her dress¬ 
ing gown, before Halle was at the door also. He 
pushed into the room, crying, “ Save me, Alixe! Save 
me!” 

“Hush!” said Alixe sternly. “Do you not know? 
Can you not see? ” She pointed toward Gartha’s bed. 
The child stirred uneasily in her sleep. “That is 
what you and Bruno have brought her to. I know 
not how! I do not ask, but the least you can do-” 

As Alixe spoke there was a loud ringing at the outer 
gate, the door within the wall. Halle sank down 
upon the floor, clinging to Alixe’s robe. “ Oh, rescue 
me! Bescue me! ” he cried. He shook, he trembled. 
It was plain he was in a state of abject terror. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 347 

“ Save you! And from what? ” 

“Open! Open in the name of the law!” The 
shout came clear and distinct from beyond the gate. 

“Who are those that come at this time of the 
night?” asked Alixe of Halle. “Have they come 
here for you? ” 

“ They are the officers of the law. Oh, save me, I 
beg of you! Save me, Alixe! If not for the love that 
I have ever borne you, then for the sake of our life¬ 
long friendship.” 

“Be silent!” said Alixe sternly. “Marie Mon¬ 
rouge ” (to the trembling maid), “ who saw this ” (a 
motion of the head toward the cringing figure), “ this 
priest come in here? ” 

“No one, Madame. He came from the fields——” 

“ I have been in hiding all day. I climbed into the 
loft. I heard the men talking, they said it had been 
discovered-” 

“ What had been discovered? Marie Monrouge, go 
down and keep out of the way ! Go to your mother. 
If any one asks you if you have seen Father Halle— 
say—avoid answering. In fact, Marie Monrouge, 
you had better keep quite out of the way, for I 
would not have you tell a falsehood, even for Father 
Halle.” 

Marie Monrouge slipped down the stairs, crossed 
the salon, and hid her quaking form within the ruins, 
where she heard again, and yet a third time, the de¬ 
mand, “ Open! open! in the name of the law! ” 

“What had they discovered? ” Alixe repeated the 
question to the priest. 

“The—the Archbishop’s death. Had you not? 
Oh, God! ” for she had fallen upon the floor. 

She quickly recovered herself. “Oh, my dear 


348 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 

Arclibisliop! ” she cried aloud. “ Dead! Dead! My 
dear Archbishop! And they suspect you? Poor 
Robert! Why not go out and face them? ” the tears 
were flooding Alixe’s face. “ And they say that you 
are guilty? Oh, my dear Archbishop, my dear old 
friend! ” 

But Halle was cringing and crawling at her feet. 

“ Oh, I cannot, I cannot! Close the door, I beg, I 
beg of you. They will never look for me here.” 

“No,” said Alixe, “they will never look for you 
here. ” 

She looked down at him through blinding tears. 

“ Ouvrez! ouvrez! au nom de la loi! ” 

Through the open window Alixe heard the bolts 
withdrawn and the great gate flung wide. Lights 
flashed on the terrace, she caught sounds of interro¬ 
gations, and denials, then she heard the officers enter 
the chateau and the tramping of footsteps as they 
searched the lower rooms. Gartha moved in her sleep. 
Alixe ran to her. “ Here, Sweet! ” she said, and rais¬ 
ing the child upon her arm, she gave her a sleeping 
potion one hour too early. Gartha sank back with a 
sigh. 

“I thought I saw Robert Halle,” she muttered. 
“ You know how I hate Robert Halle—only a—lit— 
little—less than—my—Uncle—Bruno. ” 

“ We must lock the door, Alixe; we must make fast 
the door.” 

Alixe turned and again surveyed the black figure 
prostrate before her. The man was unshorn and un¬ 
kempt. His black robe was muddy, his sandals were 
covered with the loam of the fields. She went to the 
iron door and closed it, then she stood and listened. 
She heard the search going on below. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 349 


"Is it certain that he is dead? ” she asked. 

"Yes,” said Halle. 

“How do yon know?” 

" The street gamins, the newsboys, were crying it 
in Paris before I left.” 

“When was it? ” 

“In the night some time.” 

“ How do you know? ” 

The priest shuddered and put his hands before his 
face. 

“ I know what they said. They called, 4 In the 
night, in the night! ’ ” 

“When did you see His Grace last? ” 

“ Many days ago.” Alixe fixed the shifty eyes with 
her steady look. 

“Had you a hand in—in—this? ” 

Halle looked down and muttered: “I had not.” 

“ Will you swear it? ” 

“ Yes, yes, anything! Only do not open the door 
to them.” 

Alixe took from the chiffonier her silver cross. 

“Swear,” she said, “on Virginia’s cross.” She 
held out the symbol. The priest shuddered and drew 
back, but at the increasing noise below he eagerly 
clutched it and kissed it fervently. “ I swear! ” he 
whispered hoarsely, “ I swear! ” 

There were footsteps on the stairs. They came 
nearer and more near. Then sounded the expected 
summons on the panel of the door. “Open! open! 
in the name of the law! ” 

Alixe looked toward the priest crouched upon the 
floor. He was edging toward the bed. He reached 
out his arm and raised the valance. He was about 
to conceal himself there. Alixe shook her head and 


350 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


made motion with her lips, “ They will look there 
first.” 

Again the summons at the door. 

Alixe straightened herself to her full height. 

“Who is it that comes at the dead of night to 
frighten helpless and unprotected women? ” 

“ Open, Madame la Duchesse, and we will tell you. 
This door, all doors, must be opened.” Alixe glanced 
again at Halle. He was shaking as if in a chill. He 
rolled his sunken eyes at her beseechingly. He 
clasped his shaking hands in supplication, then 
clutched her robe, and wound his fingers in the long 
braid of hair that fell to the lace ruffle which swept 
the floor. His face had lost all trace of color. 

“ They will take me,” lie whined, in a broken whis¬ 
per—the tears were raining down his cheeks, his ton¬ 
sured head was bare. Alixe could not repress a feel¬ 
ing of disgust as she looked at him. “ I will open in 
a moment,” she called; “ give me but a moment. Get 
up,” she whispered. The man arose, she threw back 
the cover of the bed. “ Hide there! ” She nodded 
her head with a contemptuous motion toward the 
opening. “ Back, back! ” she whispered, “ or I will 
not answer for your safety.” 

When she turned again to the door there was naught 
to be seen of the priest. He had shrunken down be¬ 
hind the great piece of furniture, and was almost con¬ 
cealed in the crack between it and the wall. 

Alixe took Gartha up in her arms, she spoke aloud 
to her and soothingly: “Do not be frightened, my 
Sweet. It is I, Alixe,” and laid her down in the mid¬ 
dle of the bed. Then she again approached the door. 
Her motions had been so swift that the rapping was 
only just renewed. Then she spoke. 


THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 351 


"Wlio is it that you seek? ” 

“ A priest. A man named Halle. It is known that 
he struck the Archbishop down last night as he came 
from a visit to the Cardinal. We must search here as 
well as elsewhere.” 

“You must wait a moment,” said Alixe; “when I 
call, then enter.” 

She unlocked the door, walked swiftly to the bed 
and lay down by Gartha, her hand caressing the child. 

“Now enter,” she called. 

The door was opened, and three sergeants de ville 
pushed into the room. As they entered, Alixe, who 
could not preserve the deceiving appearance of calm 
which she had planned, arose to a sitting posture. 

“ And is this the manner,” she asked, “ in which the 
police of France protect the people who live within 
their borders? Do they force themselves in on 
women and little children? The child has been ill, 
burned, near death, and you come expecting to find 
the Archbishop’s murderer here. Do you know that 
the Archbishop was my friend? Would I, think you, 
willingly harbor his murderer? ” 

Alixe had now arisen and stood in the middle of the 
floor, scornfully surveying, from her tall height, the 
short officer in front of her. 

It was a wonderful picture that upon which he 
looked. Her splendid hair fell in great braids, and 
swept the lace at the bottom of her robe. Her white 
feet were bare. In her hand she still held the ame¬ 
thyst cross, which caught the lights reflected from the 
lantern in the hand of one of the soldiers. 

The chief officer cast a suspicious glance about the 
great room. 

“To whom were you speaking? ” he demanded. 


352 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 

“I was soothing the child,” she said, motioning 
with her head toward the little white heap. 

“ Is there no one else here? ” 

“ Yon may look, you may search, you have my full 
permission.” 

"We know that the man we seek is a frequent 
guest of the Abbey.” 

" Yes, yes, he has been. He was a friend of us all. 
We never credited aught against him. I will not be¬ 
lieve that he committed this dreadful deed; but, if he 
were here, and I believed your charge against him, 
do you not think that I would give him up to you, old 
friends though we are? ” 

" Will you swear thsft he is not in the room? ” 

Alixe threw her head proudly back, and looked 
down upon the man from lids which were almost 
closed. In her most scornful voice she said: 

" I have told you that he is not here. Is not that 
enough? ” 

“ Madame la Duchesse swears it? ” 

" He is not here, ” was the reply. " The man whom 
you seek is not here.” 

The officer in charge cast an irresolute glance at the 
two sergeants de ville. "It is enough, Madame,” he 
said. He bowed and withdrew with the others into the 
hall. When they were half way down the stair Alixe 
closed the door and locked it. 

She swept across the room and neared the bed. 

“Come, Robert,” she whispered. "Come, you are 
saved! ” She heard the heavy footsteps below stairs, 
crossing the salon. She heard the men go to the 
outer gate, which the quaking Charles opened only 
too willingly, and ride away toward Moncousis. The 
priest had heard also the departing gallop of the 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LAI)Y 353 

horses. He slijd from the protecting cover, and Re¬ 
mained standing where his sandalled feet touched f;he 
floor. His look was fastened upop Alixe, the woman 
who had just yescped him from shame and death. 
Alixe raised her eyes to his with relief, but thejre was 
something ^epellant in the gaze that l;e tprned upon 
her, something new, of freedom, and presumption, 
and deipand. for the first time in her life Alixe felt 
a horror of him; she was afraid. 

She went swiftly to the head of the bed, and drew 
aside the curtains. “Come here,” she said sternly. 

The withdrawal of the curtains discovered a recess 
and sliding panel within the wall. 

“Help me,” she ordered. The tone was new to 
Halle. Together they pushed the heavy mass of 
wood and iron away. Alixe reached her hand within 
the recess and unlocked the panel. She pushed it 
aside. It slid within its case in the thick wall. She 
turned to the priest, and pointing to the opening, she 
uttered the one word, “ Go! ” 

He stretched out his arms to her. His gaze envel¬ 
oped her with a bold and despairing admiration, he 
seemed devouring her beauty, a beauty of whose rav¬ 
ishing extent he had never dreamed until now. 

The look of the priest was glaring, intense, fixed. 
It rapidly became one of insult, an unholy passion 
blazed within his eyes, he took a step nearer. Alixe 
shrank back and away from him. *She held him with 
a steady eye, though her heart was bursting with 
anger and fear. She pointed toward the open door¬ 
way with an imperious motion of the hand. 

“ Go! ” she said, in a low and steady voice. “ I hear 
the horses again. It may have been only a ruse.” 
At her words Halle, with a look of terror, slunk to- 
23 


354 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


ward the opening. “ And if they do return, I shall 
tell no more lies for you, coward! ” 

As Alixe closed the panel it grazed the shoulder of 
the priest. She pushed it quickly home and locked 
it, and also pushed in place the heavy bolt, and then, 
the strain being over, she threw herself upon her 
knees in the Abbess’s prie-dieu. 

“ Oh, my dear Archbishop! ” she cried. “ My dear, 
dear Archbishop! ” 


XL. 


Quentin watched the corner of the garden for sev¬ 
eral days, but he did not see Alixe again. He 
haunted the churches and scanned the journals to see 
if any one, or rather the one in whom he was inter¬ 
ested, had taken the vows which would shut her 
away from the world and himself forever more, but 
he heard of no one that he knew taking up the con¬ 
ventual life. Finally, after an interminable two 
weeks of long days spent on his balcony with no re¬ 
ward, he left his apartment one afternoon, determined 
to seek the Archbishop and implore him once more 
to tell him all that he knew. After leaving the door 
of his house he walked along the little street, and 
came to the great gate of the convent. Suddenly a 
new thought struck him. Why not go boldly in and 
ask to see Alixe herself? No sooner thought of than 
done. He rang the bell and at once greeted the sis¬ 
ter in attendance. 

“ I wish to see the Duchesse di Brazzia,” said Quen¬ 
tin. 

“ The Duchesse di Brazzia? I know of no such per¬ 
son,” said the sister. “Is it, perhaps, the tall lady 
who has just taken the veil? ” 

How far down Quentin’s heart sank at these words 
he could not estimate. It seemed a physical fall of 
that organ, and it thumped and beat in its fall like a, 
steam-hammer. 


356 THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 

“She has taken the veil!” he exclaimed, and then 
leaned against the inside of the gate unable to say 
more. 

The gentle little sister, seeing his distress, sug¬ 
gested: “Perhaps Monsieur would like to see the 
Mother Superior. She pap tell the monsieur more 
than I can.” 

Quentip followed the serving sister as if in a dream. 
She took hipi into the interior of the convent, and 
seated him in the reception room. When he was left 
alone he became a prey to the gravest fears, the bit¬ 
terest thoughts. Could it be possible that her life 
had been so hard that she had voluntarily resigppd 
the world and its friendships? He did not say pleas¬ 
ures, for Alixe had had few reaf pleasures. He felt 
suddenly a renewed animosity toward his friench 
Madarpe. Evep were Alixe unhappily married, was 
not her mother left to her? Could not she soften this 
hardest of all hard trials? 

JTe groaned apd covered his face with his hands. 

“ Yop wish to speak with me? ” 

Quentin looked pp to see a woman ip the habit of a 
nun standing near hipp He had not heard her enter, 
and ypt the room hftd beep deathlike in its stillness. 

Quentin arose at once and controlled hipiself. 

“Madame,” said lip, “may I see the Duchesse di 
Brazzia? ” 

The Mother Superior looked surprised. She did 
not answer at qpce. When she spoke, she said: 

“ From whom do you copre? ” 

“I have nq credeptials,” said Quentin, forcing a 
smile, “ but I am a friend of the Duchesse di Brazzia, 
and it is important that I should see her for a few 
moments.” 


THE ARCHBISHOB AND THE LADY 357 


“Do you come from tlie Archbishop? ” 

“ No.” 

“Does he know that you are coining here to-day? ” 

“ No, Madame. I thought of going to him, but I 
was passing your gate, and felt impelled to come in 
and ask for myself. You do not answer me. What 
has happened? Can I not see her? ” 

“ She whom you call the Duchesse di Brazzia is not 
here, monsieur.” 

“ Whom I call the Duchesse di Brazzia! ” Quentin 
was breathless. “ Whom I call the Duchess di Braz¬ 
zia! What! What do you-” 

“We already called her Soeur Cecile among our¬ 
selves,” said the Mother Superior, smiling; “soon we 
hope to have her feel that she has cast off the old 
name and taken the new one forever.” 

“ Then she has taken no vows as yet? ” 

“No, Monsieur.” 

“And may I see her? ” 

“She is not here* Monsieur; I have told you 
alread} 7 . 

“Oh, yes, yes—pardofij Madame, not here? 
Where then? ” 

“ That I cannot tell you. It was her request that 
we should give her address to no one. When a sorely 
tried soul is thinking of entering the conventual life* 
Monsieur, it does not wish to be disturbed with the 
thoughts of the world and worldly things.” 

“But this is monstrous!” said Quentin. “Mon¬ 
strous! That such a woman, born to ornament 
society-” 

“Born i'ot the service of the Lord; Monsieur,” Re¬ 
turned the Mother Superior gravely. There waS a 
silehce Of some seconds* which finally she broke. 


358 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“ And may I ask what claim you have on tlie Ducliesse 
di Brazzia? ” 

Quentin looked down and bit liis lip. “None,” lie 
said. 

“You are not then, by chance, the Count St. Au- 
bin? ” 

“I am not,” said Quentin. 

“Not her brother-in-law, Monsieur Valery?” 

“No,” answered Quentin. 

“Nor relative of any kind? ” 

“I am not,” said he again. 

The Mother Superior looked the young man over 
from head to foot. If ever there was a human being 
for whom a woman would willingly risk the perils of 
the world, this was the man. Some such thought 
may have passed through the Mother Superior’s mind, 
some dim and far-away echo of the love song of her 
youth, but her face was set and stern, and her voice 
showed no sympathy, if she felt any. 

“ And what has a young man, not a relative, to do 
with a young and beautiful woman like the Ducliesse 
di Brazzia? ” Almost the words which the Arch¬ 
bishop had used. 

“It is true,” he said. “ There is no answer. I am 
less than nothing to her, but I cannot stand by and 
see her immured within walls such as these, leaving 
the world, where some time she may find happiness, 
to take up a career against which she will chafe and 
rebel, and find too late that it is not what she had 
hoped.” 

“ With all of which I have nothing to do, Monsieur. 
I know that from my standpoint the holy life is the 
only one, and-” 

“And you are, all of you, urging her to accept it; 


THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 359 


to come and seclude lierself among you; to take oaths, 
which, when taken, cannot be broken; you are influ¬ 
encing her——” 

“Naturally,” returned the Mother Superior. 
“ Naturally. Not that she is a person, the Duchesse 
di Brazzia, who is easily influenced,” a shade of an¬ 
noyance crossed the speaker’s face. “ She judges for 
herself, and argues it out step by step. She will not 
go one inch beyond her convictions. When you hear 
that the Duchesse di Brazzia has taken the veil, you 
may rest assured that nowhere else could she have 
found happiness. Even should she remain in the 
world, she will ever have a leaning toward the holy 
life. She is high principled and faithful, she is-” 

“I know, I know, Madame,” said Quentin. “You 
can tell me nothing good about her of which I am not 
assured already; but you can tell me one thing that I 
do not know, and that is where she is at this moment. ” 

“ And you would crave to know against her expressed 
wish?” 

“ No, not if I believed it to be her expressed wish. ” 

“You may rest assured that it is, Monsieur.” 

Quentin bowed and went away. He felt almost 
certain that Alixe was still within the convent, and if 
not, that she had been taken to some other to elude 
him. It must be the Archbishop’s doing. He would 
go to him and demand to know where they had con¬ 
cealed this splendid young creature, that they might 
fill the coffers of their church with her fortune. The 
injustice of this suspicion Quentin did not appreciate. 
All men are prejudiced, and most men are unjust, be¬ 
cause it is almost impossible to judge fairly from a 
standpoint of prejudice. 

Quentin was overwhelmed by a feeling of supreme 


360 THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 

pity for this charming, helpless being, whom he 
was convinced was badgered, ptlt Upon, over-conscien¬ 
tious, unsympathized with, except by the Archbishop, 
whose kindness and personal and truly spiritual at¬ 
tractions, he felt and feared, might prove a strong fac¬ 
tor toward persuading Alixe to shelter herself within 
the walls of the cloister. 


XLI. 


When Quentin was ushered out of the convent gate, 
he walked blindly along, not knowing where to go. 
Finally, he found himself in the Rile Vaugirard and 
near the Luxembourg Gardens. He did Hot go up 
the steps that lead to the gallery, but turned and 
walked into the open gate, and went along the grav¬ 
elled path to where he saw an empty bench bfeneatli 
the shade of a tree. The bench was Hear a little pond 
upon which some ducks were disporting themselves, 
and Quentin sat idly watching them as they stood on 
their heads or swam about in the water, and then—his 
gaze wandered across the pond. Away upon the other 
side, he suddenly caught sight of the Archbishop. 
Here would be a solution of the difficulty. Tlie Arch¬ 
bishop was walking very fast in the other direction; 
that is, exactly away from him. He must skirt the 
entire pond before he could catch up with him. He 
started to walk at a smart pace, and had nearly encir¬ 
cled the water when he was stopped by a deep ditch, 
and a printed notice that this passage was interdicted. 
Quentin, nothing loath, ran and made a flying leap 
across the heads of the workmen beneath. There was 
a great outcry, and he found himself promptly stopped 
by a gendarme. Experience had taught Quentin that 
resistance in such a case only made matters worse. 

Explanations were in order, some money was slipped 
into the hand of the soldier with Quentin’s card; but 


362 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


tlie little disturbance bad lasted long enough to pre¬ 
vent the fulfilment of his desires, and when he was 
again at liberty the Archbishop had disappeared. 
Quentin ran toward the gate out of which he must have 
passed, but his straining eyes saw no one that looked 
like his old friend, and he sulkily hailed a passing 
cab and ordered the cocher to drive to Madame’s 
number. 

It was a long drive, and Quentin was certain that 
the man had skirted the Exposition buildings to make 
the trip more lucrative. He had said, “A l’heure,” 
and the little horse jogged along at a snail pace, not¬ 
withstanding the repeated loud cracks of the whip. 

Quentin remembered what Valery had once said 
about Paris cabmen: That all their horses were trick 
horses; that the horses knew by a certain sort of 
crack of the whip whether it was a false alarm, or 
whether it was really meant as an incentive to haste. 
The whip cracked incessantly, the horse kept up his 
slow jog-trot pace, minding the apparent request to 
be more speedy no more than a cavalry horse minds 
the booming of artillery, and Quentin leaned back 
and resigned himself to the inevitable. 

Arrived at Madame’s door, he mounted the stairs 
in no time and rang impatiently. As before, Ma¬ 
dame was at home; and as before, he heard a great deal 
of rustling about in the next room, for what woman, 
even if she is to be married to another man, wishes 
either a discarded or discarding lover to see her look¬ 
ing anything but her best? Madame remained longer 
before the glass than usual, and came in smiling, with 
a rose bloom on her cheek which Quentin was certain 
had been placed there, and not by the hand of God, 
since he had rung the bell. There are a few things 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 363 


that Omnipotence cannot accomplish. This is one 
of them. 

Madame had not seen Quentin since their encoun¬ 
ter in this very room, and her manner was somewhat 
shy and unassured; but it is never too late to mend 
such matters, and she placed herself in a chair now, 
not on the sofa, that there might be no reminder from 
locality of that painful scene of a day some weeks past. 

“You are a stranger,” said Madame, smiling, “but 
always welcome.” 

She did not put out her hand until Quentin stretched 
out his own, and then, after a short handclasp, with¬ 
drew it at once. Madame had discovered that there 
are men into whose good graces women must retreat, 
not advance. She had learned a great deal in theory 
since last they met. 

Quentin seated himself rather awkwardly. A man 
never feels so uncomfortable as when he has.snubbed, 
or has had to snub, a woman who really cares for him, 
and he was experiencing now the consequences of a 
careless and too ardent friendship, which he had never 
intended should be anything more. 

“ I have come to ask you that same question over 
again,” said Quentin abruptly. He was determined 
that this time, at least, he should not be misunder¬ 
stood. “Where is your daughter?” he blurted out 
boldly. His tone, and the words “your daughter,” 
brought a deeper flush to Madame’s cheek than the 
chamois skin had left there. 

Madame drew herself up coldly. 

“ As I told you before, I do not know where she is 
at this moment.” 

“Is she at a convent? Has she taken the veil? 
Has she bound herself by vows-” 


364 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“ Do not get excited, Mr. Quentih, over the Duchesse 
di Brazzia. Whatever she does will be permitted by 
her husband, the Count St. Aubin, and I cannot see 
what you or any other man, or woman, can have to do 
with it.” 

“That is very true,” said Quentin. “I know that 
I hnve nothing to do with it. God knows that I hdvb 
had very little to do either with it or liet; but I am 
asking a simple question, one for information. Even 
after it is answered, I shall not know what to do any 
more thaU I know noiv, any mOte than I have ktiown 
what to do since the first moment I sUw her.” 

“ Yoh are very frank, Mr. Quentin,” Madame’s eye¬ 
lids trembled, she pressed her lips together; “you 
were iny friend. Yoti bame to visit me.” 

“ Yes, yes! ” broke in Quentin. “ And I shall tliaiik 
you ever and always from the very depths of my heart 

for giving me a chance to-” 

“ Heroics are quite out of place, Mr. Quentin, from 
a young—from an unmarried man about a married 
woman.” Quentin felt as if he had received a cold 
douche. “ There is one thing that I cUn certainly tell 
you, and that is, that, no matter how you pursue 
Alixe, no matter how much you try to change her de¬ 
termination, nothing in the world can alter it when 
once her mind is made up. I do not say that it is 

made up; she has always judged for herself--” 

“Did she judge for herself when you married her 

to that little mountebank-” 

“You are speaking bf my nephew, Mr. Quentin,” 
said Madame dryly. “You were a visitor in his 
house, and no matter how much you may feel your 
superior height and good looks, it is most ungenerous 
of you.” 



THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 365 

“I made np comparisons. I thought pf npne. It 
is pafept to eyery one that it was a njonstrpps mar¬ 
riage. She was so young! Hardly more thaP eigh¬ 
teen.” 

“I was married at seventeen,” said Madame. 

“ What did she know of marriage? ” pursued Quen- 
tip. “And with such a gnome as that! Why, it is 
Beauty and the Beast over again. If she loved him, 
could possibly love him-” 

“ Apd has she confided to you that she does not 
love her husband, Mr. Quentin? ” 

“No! No!” shopped Queptm; “God fprbid! We 
have never had any conversation except op the mosf 
copimonplace matters. I hardly know her, even 
through conventional mediupm- Put I do knpw fhaf 
she suffers J I have seep it in her eyes, heard if in the 
tones of her voice; I learn if pow, becaiise she, who 
should be madly in lpve with life, wffh all that slip 
has to live for, talks of taking the veil, of iipnauring 
herself within the waljs pf St.——” 

“ She cannot do so unless her husband gives his 
consent.” 

“And will he?” 

“ Bruno is a little exigeant about the amount that 
Alixe shall give him before he will agree,” said Ma¬ 
dame. 

“BJess him for that,” said Quentin, “no matter 
what his motives are.” 

“ Alixe does not wish to go to the sisterhood.empty- 
handed, afid that is why-” 

“ Poor soul! driven out of the world, out of the sun¬ 
shine! Driven away from the love and happiness 
that she might possess, to find-” 

“ To find peace, Mr. Quentin, so his dear Grape 


366 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


says, to find peace, and I, a good Catholic, cannot con¬ 
tradict him. I may confess to yon that I am not over 
pleased at this desire of Alixe’s, because I lose more 
than any one. I lose a country home where I can run 
down for a week when I am tired of Paris. I lose a 
relative whose title is the Duchesse di Brazzia, and 
Alixe, with all her failings, is rather generous in the 
way of presents. Here is what she sent me the other 
day.” Madame stretched out a plump arm and 
showed Quentin a bracelet containing a jewel-mounted 
watch. “ She said she should need nothing now but a 
simple timepiece to remind her when the hour arrives 
for her devotions; in fact, the convent bell should do 
for that. You see what I lose, Mr. Quentin. Much 
more than you, who hardly know her.” 

“You lose a daughter,” returned Quentin, “who 
has been all kindness and gentleness, no matter what 
your attitude toward her has been. I unfortunately 
overheard-” 

“What! What did you hear?” asked Madame, 
paling under her color. 

Quentin did not answer. He arose. “ That is all 
beside the question,” he said. “Then, as you will 
tell me nothing, I will leave you. I had hoped that 
you would be willing to relieve my tortured mind 
somewhat. I wish you every happiness, Madame; 
but I hope never to see you again until you can tell 
me that that unhappy soul has come to her senses 
through some kind and urging word from you.” 

“ I told you, Mr. Quentin, if you remember,” said 
Madame, with heightened color, “ that I am not anx¬ 
ious to have her take up the conventual life. But you 
should talk with the Archbishop; he is much more 
influential with her than I am.” 


THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 367 


“I will go to tlie Archbishop,” said Quentin. 

“And remember,” said Madame, “ that whatever he 
tells you, and whatever you hear of her whereabouts, 
she herself has expressed the desire that no one will 
interfere with her now; and do as she wishes, I beg 
of you.” 

Across Madame’s mind’s eye had flashed the pic¬ 
ture of Quentin’s going down to the Abbey, and the 
meeting, which, under the guise of friendship, would 
cover a stronger feeling. As is quite natural, she 
judged others by what she herself would have done, 
and she could not bear the thought that her recently 
lost friend should so suddenly fill her place, more 
than fill it, with another, and that other her daughter, 
Alixe. 

As for Quentin, he would have said that Madame 
had never filled the niche where Alixe was enshrined; 
in fact, that she had been but a dear friend, a devoted 
friend, with an embarrassing amount of attention 
toward himself, a much younger person, and nothing 
more. Quentin did not trust himself to speak again. 
He bowed himself hurriedly out, with the fixed idea 
that the Archbishop was now the only one to solve 
the difficulty for him. As he came into the outer 
hall, and started toward the general stair, never too 
light in Paris houses, he heard a sound, a sort of hiss¬ 
ing sound it was, which fell suddenly upon his ear. 

He raised his eyes to see a little figure standing at 
the extreme end of the corridor. The arm of this lit¬ 
tle person was outstretched, and was beckoning des¬ 
perately with claw-like finger. 

He approached nearer and found that it was Made¬ 
moiselle, who stood under the hanging, unliglited 
lamp, 


368 THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


"Have you Jieard the news? ” she asked. 

"Nq, what news?” asked Quentin. 

“ The news of Gartha. ” 

"No.” Quentin was mildly interested. News of 
Alixe was wlaaf he wished. “Is the child here? Is 
she well? ” 

" Than you have pot heard! She has been nearly 
killed. It was with the explosives at the Abbey.” 
Mademoiselle was voluble in her owp tongue. 

“ Poor little Gartha! ” said Quentin in a softeped 
voicp. " Who was with her? ” 

“Her father was there, apd I was there. Tlapy 
telegraphed for liey aunt-” 

" Her aunt—” 

" The Duchesse di Brazzia. Hush! Come down to 
the premier etage. She watches like a, cat. She will 
think I am telling you. I saw you copip in. I was 
in the street on a small errand. I waited until yoqr 
long talk with Madame was over. Cqme down lierp! 
There!” 

Madepaoiselle had gone hurriedly down the flight 
of stairs; and not any too soon, for the door pf 
Mada^ap’s apartment opened, and some one came out 
upop the landing, stood there foj* one nappapnt, and 
then went back, and the door was closed. 

“ She said I was not to tell you if you came, but I 
see no harm ip it. Why should one tell a falsehood 
if there is nothing to gain by it? If tlaeye weye any 
good reason, why then-” 

“Is Gartha much hurt? ” asked Qpentin anxiously. 

“She was badly burned.” Mademoiselle’s mous¬ 
tache quivered with emotion for the child, whom phe 
really loyed, and who in return liked Japr so little. 
“But the English doctor is bringing her tlirouglp” 


THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 369 


“ And the Duchesse is there? ” There was a note of 
joy in Quentin’s voice that Mademoiselle could not 
fail to remark. 

“You will not tell that I told?” 

“No, certainly not,” said Quentin. “Do you sup¬ 
pose that I wish to get you into trouble with-” 

He motioned with his head upward. 

“And you will not go there? ” 

“No, not unless I am asked to go.” 

“You will not be asked to go,” said Mademoiselle. 
“ Yesterday she talked of you—Gartha, I mean, and 
her father said that he should bring you back with 
him from Paris; but her aunt, the Duchess, said de¬ 
cidedly, no, there was no need of it, and that she 
could receive no one now.” 

Quentin’s look of mortification did not pass un¬ 
noticed by Mademoiselle. “It is right,” she said. 
“ No lady of the Duchess’s position can receive a gen¬ 
tleman at her house, and a young man like yourself— 

Monsieur Valery has strange ideas—but-” 

“We may trust to the Duchess to keep him 
straight,” said Quentin, with a bitter little laugh. 

“ Certainement, ” answered Mademoiselle in a per¬ 
plexed tone. “ Gartha is getting on well. Mr. Valery 
is to come up to town in a day or two. ” 

“I shall do nothing more, now,” said Quentin. “I 
have made myself obnoxious enough, I fear; but I 
shall go to see the Archbishop. Where will Mr. Val¬ 
ery be when he comes to-morrow? ” 

Mademoiselle gave him the name of Valery’s hotel, 
and then, as she heard a footstep above, she turned 
away and waddled pufiily up the stairs. As Quentin 
left the house he walked close along the wall. He 
did not cross the street, for he felt certain that Madame 
24 


370 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


was lying in wait to see him come out, and the poor 
little Weasel, to prevent Madame from discovering that 
they had met and talked together, would be obliged 
to stretch her mendacity to the utmost limit. There 
are wonderful possibilities in an apartment house, as 
Quentin had just found to his satisfaction, and Made¬ 
moiselle was discovering how much more could be ac¬ 
complished here sub rosa than at the Abbey. When 
Mademoiselle entered the apartment, she found Ma¬ 
dame standing at the window drumming with her 
fingers on the pane. The day was chilly, and the 
long windows were closed. Her face was pressed 
close to the glass, and she was straining her eyes first 
to the right and then to the left. Evidently her es¬ 
pionage had met with no reward. 

“ Oh! it is you. Did you meet Mr. Quentin? ” 
said Madame. 

“ Monsieur Quentin! ” Mademoiselle’s tone ex¬ 
pressed all that there was of astonished surprise. 
“Has he been here? ” 

“Don’t tell me that you have not seen him, Made¬ 
moiselle, for he left me not more than fifteen minutes 
ago!” 

“ I shall not tell you that I have not seen Monsieur 
Quentin, Madame-” 

“There,” said Madame triumphantly. “What did 
I suspect! ” 

“And why suspect, Madame? I did see Monsieur 
Quentin, it is true; but that is not saying that I have 
spoken with him. Monsieur came out of the door as 
I was hurrying back from the Rue de la Tremoille. 
He went in the direction of the Champs Elysees; he 
seemed to be in too much haste to stop and speak to 
me; but then, Madame—” with a shrug of the shoul- 


THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 371 

ders—“ I am only a poor gouvernante, a companion, 
and old. The Messieurs are for the young and the 
beautiful, not for the elder ladies like to you and 
to me.” 

“ It is not necessary for you to make comparisons, 
Mademoiselle,” said Madame sharply. “My age is 
not to be mentioned with yours.” 

“ Monsieur has so handsome a back; so young a 
back,” said Mademoiselle. “I saw it, his back. I 
thought that perhaps he had heard of Gartha’s acci¬ 
dent, and had come to ask about her.” 

“ Indeed, then, he has not heard anything at all of 
Mademoiselle Gartha’s accident, Mademoiselle, and 
I forbid you, if you should meet him, and speak with 
him, to mention it.” 

Mademoiselle smiled internally. Almost all of her 
smiles were internal, and while she lived with Ma¬ 
dame they were also eternal. 

“What are you smiling at? ” 

“I, Madame?—I smiling?” 

“You will remember what I have just said.” 

“I shall remember, Madame.” 

“ I believe that she has seen and talked with him. 
I wonder how much she has told him,” mused 
Madame. “ Oh, dear! If every one wouldn’t always 
try to put their finger into every one else’s pie.” 


XLII. 


Quentin thought a good deal of Gartha, his little 
friend at the Abbey, as he walked back to his hotel. 
More, perhaps, because of her companion. Had she 
been alone his thoughts must necessarily have been 
divided. His joy was great to know that Alixe was not 
yet the perpetual inmate of a convent, placed there by 
her own will. Much as he regretted Gartha ’ s accident, 
he could but welcome any occurrence which would 
keep Alixe in the world for a little longer time. He 
did not go to see the Archbishop after all. He had 
felt snubbed and humiliated by the Mother Superior, 
and he saw now that he had perhaps worn his heart 
upon his sleeve for these good people to peck at. 
He had learned all that there was to know from 
Mademoiselle, and Alixe was, at least for the time, in 
the home that she loved. He would cease to worry 
about her, and let things take their course for the 
present. 

He felt tired. He had been living on his nerves. 
He was neither eating nor sleeping well, and sud¬ 
denly he decided to go for a day or so to the forest of 
Fontainebleau and see what that would do for him. 

He went to his hotel, sent his wheel to the Gare de 
Lyons, and two hours more saw him on his way to 
that paradise of the art student, male or female. He 
scoured the paths and roads of the forest; he caught 
picturesque glimpses of men and maids from Barbizon 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 373 


and other villages, sitting underneath the trees, palette 
in hand, or hand in hand, as the case might be. The 
sight of such incessant and open love-making palled 
upon him, and after two days of hard riding he re¬ 
turned to town with a fair appetite and two nights of 
sleep to the good. 

Quentin arrived in Paris in the morning, and, driv¬ 
ing as far as the Pont de la Concorde, he paid his 
fare, dismissed his cocher, and started on a brisk 
walk across the open space toward the Automobile 
Club. As his heels rang smartly out on the asphalted 
pavement he was all at once confronted with a figure 
which he well knew. This figure was approaching 
him from the direction in which he was going, and a 
moment after Quentin discovered him, they met face 
to face. 

"Hola! ” said Valery, for it was he. 

"Holloa, Valery,” said Quentin, “I am truly glad 
to see you.” 

This autumnal butterfly was resplendent with the 
newest creations of the tailor’s art, the latest ideas in 
color that his brain could evolve. So gorgeous was 
he that heads were thrust out of carriage windows, 
and riders on automobiles and wheels turned to look 
once and again. 

"Take that!” said Valery, as he doubled his fist 
and gave Quentin a welcoming punch in the region of 
the diaphragm. "Where are you bound? ” 

"What good luck I am in,” said Quentin heartily. 
" Mine must be changing. How is Gartha? Better? 
And the Ducli-? ” 

"Now, which of all these questions do you want 
answered? ” said Valery, with his broad, good-natured 
grin. 


374 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


Quentin knew, but be could wait. “ Tell me bow 
tlie little girl is.” 

“Right as a trivet,” said Yalery, “or I should not 
have come. Why, it was only yesterday that she 
called Alixe and me to her bedside, and said that she 
was near death, and thought that she ought to be 
married to you before mortification set in.” 

Quentin laughed heartily, the first good laugh that 
he had enjoyed for weeks. They walked across the 
square, and Yalery gave him the details of w r hat Gar- 
tha had considered her last wishes. 

Suddenly he broke off. 

“I wonder what’s the matter with you, Quentin. 
See how people are staring. Turn around. Have 
you anything queer about your back or anything? I 
never saw so much interest in a man in Paris in my 
life.” 

Quentin gave a comprehensive glance at his friend, 
and walked onward without explanation. What he 
saw was a pale gray alpine hat surrounded with a 
band of white, suffering from an eruption of red 
spots as large as a franc. The turned-over collar was 
striped green and pink, and round its wearer’s neck 
was a tie of yellow, whose flowing ends were knotted 
in front and spread gayly to the breeze. The coat 
was of a pale cinnamon shade; the waistcoat of a 
pale blue, ornamented with large gold buttons, an 
open crimson rose glowing from the button-hole. 
Shoes of russet leather which struggled vainly for 
notice against the enveloping light gray gaiters, and 
long, full, white trousers, completed the costume of 
the Rastaquouere. “ Quite enough, ” Quentin thought, 
“ to cause the general and comprehensive stare of the 
Paris crowds.” 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 375 


“Come over to Maxim’s,” said Valery, as they 
walked along. “We can be quiet there.” 

“ Quiet at Maxim’s, on the street, among the star¬ 
ing crowds! ” Quentin smiled broadly. 

“So Eldon’s really going to take up the white 
man’s burden! ” said Valery. “Gad! I’m glad it’s 
him instead of me. He’ll find my respected mother- 
in-law a trifle heavy at times. Worse than a Boer or 
a Kaffir when it comes to shielding her from the cauld 
blast on yonder lea, on yonder lea. His plaidie has 
got to be made of Brussels lace, clasped with dia¬ 
monds, if he wants to keep Mamaslia really warm and 
comfortable. Poor old Eldon! ” Valery shook his 
head pityingly. “ He deserves a better fate. Little 
cat!” 

Quentin sighed as he remembered pleasures which 
he had resigned with so much ease. It had been a 
pleasant friendship, and after all it is agreeable to 

have a pretty woman and a young-looking woman- 

“ There’s a gospel chap in the Quarter that I wish 
they’d employ. He’s a parson for revenue only. 
Eldon’s sure to give a good fee.” 

“You seem to be philanthropically inclined,” said 
Quentin, waking up. “ What is your interest in him, 
the gospel chap, as you call him? ” 

“None,” said Valery, puffing away at his Havana; 
“ the interest is in myself, my best friend. He has 
owed me shekels, lo! these many moons. If Eldon 
would agree to hire him, I might get out an injunc¬ 
tion on Eldon to have the money paid over to me; it’s 
the only way I’ll ever get a ha’penny of it. But—” 
stopping on the pavement and facing Quentin—“ where 
have you been all this time, old man? In hiding from 
Mamasha? ” 


376 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“ I am just back from the country. And you? ” 

“I only came up from the Abbey this morning. I 
dismissed my cocher at the club and went out to find 
you. I have a message for you—” Quentin’s heart 
beat faster—“from Gartha—” and ran slow again. 
“ What a noise these rascals are making. What do 
they say ? ” 

This question was evoked by the shouts of the 
newsboys. They were calling shrilly: “In the 
night! ” “In the night! ” 

Quentin beckoned to one, who ran up and waited 
while he felt in his pocket for some silver. Valery 
seized the paper. 

“Que faites-vous? Vous!” said Valery, in tones 
of thunder to the sharp-eyed little gamin. “ What’s 
all this noise about? ” He looked at the headings as 
Quentin paid the lad. “W T hat? What’s this? 
Quentin! Quentin! Do you see! Oh, good God! 
Quentin, look here! The Archbishop! The Arch¬ 
bishop ! ” 

“ What? ” said Quentin. “ What is it? ” And then 
he recalled the incessant clamor of the newsboys, 
which had pursued him all the way from the station. 
The news of the day had been of little interest to him; 
he had paid no attention to it. 

“ Come into the club,” said Valery. “ I cannot read 
it here.” 

Together the two entered the club, and going up the 
stairs and out upon the balcony, they scanned the 
headlines for the details of the dreadful intelligence, 
fearing the worst, hoping for the best. 

As Valery read aloud, there came to Quentin’s 
mind in a flash the sombre picture of the priest, Halle, 
lurking behind the angle of the convent wall, waiting 


THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 377 


for the Archbishop to appear. Yalery threw down 
Le Matin. “ Come over to my rooms,” he said, “ and 
let us talk it over. We can’t do anything, I sup¬ 
pose? ” 

They came out into a dark autumn day, chilly 
for the season, and went to Yalery’s rooms in a near¬ 
by hotel. 

“Send up some wood,” said Yalery, as he passed 
the office, “ and plenty of it. ” 

Quentin followed him to the lift, and they soon 
were in Yalery’s rooms. They had not been long 
seated when some servants appeared, bringing baskets 
of wood, rolls of kindlings, etc. 

“Come in!” said Yalery, “come in! How many 
more are there of you? Please give my compliments 
to the gerant, and tell him that I have no intention 
of building a house. There! that will do, I haven’t 
any woodshed up here. Take back two or three cart¬ 
loads, and tell the gerant that he can send up the 
rest of the building material to-morrow.” 

“That’s the first time that I ever saw what, in 
America, we call plenty of wood, in a Paris hotel, ” said 
Quentin. 

Shocked at the dreadful news that he had heard, 
he could but laugh at Yalery’s dry humor, which, it 
is needless to say, was quite wasted on the French 
servants. 

“I’ve trained ’em,” laughed Yalery. 

“If you don’t mind, I will build the fire,” said 
Quentin. “ I don’t believe any one in the world knows 
more about fires than an American savage. We are 
brought up to it.” Soon the logs were blazing hotly, 
and the two men, who were fast growing friends, 
sat and smoked, and talked and wondered. Finally 


378 THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


Quentin took the cigar from between his lips and 
looked at Valery, searcliingly. 

“ Have you any suspicion who could have commit¬ 
ted such an awful deed? ” 

Valery shook his head as he gazed into the fire. 
“No,” said he, “not the slightest. How should I 
have? ” 

“I wonder,” said Quentin, after a short silence, 
“whether I ought to tell you what I know? ” 

“Certainly you should, if you know anything. 
But how could you? What had you to do with the 
Archbishop more than to meet him for a few hours at 
the Abbey ? ” 

“ Your question is a sensible one, but I have seen 
something, and taken in conjunction with what I 
know, it seems as if I may be on the right track.” 

“Let’s have it,” said Valery, turning lazily in his 
chair and looking at Quentin through partly closed 
eyes. 

Quentin began his narration. As he proceeded, 
and finally mentioned the Alsatian’s name, Valery 
shook his head. 

“ Oh, no, no! ” he said. “ You’re way off, quite on 
the wrong track, quite! Haile hadn’t enough cause 
for such a deed, and if he had the cause, he had not 
the courage. I never thought Bob a saint, even when 
he took holy orders, for I knew too much about him; 
but I can’t imagine him, loose-principled as he was, 
enough of a blackguard to commit a crime. You will 
have to think up some other solution, Quentin. I’m 
afraid you let your personal prejudices affect your 
judgment. You don’t like Halle.” 

“No,” answered Quentin, “I confess to not liking 
the man overmuch. He was rude, and, later, insult- 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 379 


ing to me at tlie Abbey, where I was a guest at the 
same time with himself; but, of course, that does not 
make him a criminal.” 

“I don’t know,” said Yalery. “I think rudeness a 
crime, don’t you? ” 

“ I wonder where Halle is to-day? ” said Quentin. 

44 Off with Bruno somewhere, looking up some me¬ 
chanic who will make the parts of their precious 
automobile. The truth is, they think they have such 
a wonderful invention, that they are afraid to trust 
one person with more than one part, and so they get 
men all over the country to make it. Why, those men 
never know that Bruno is the Count St. Aubin. He 
talks to them as if he were a paid underling, procur¬ 
ing from them the skilled labor that he wishes for the 
Count. I have heard them ask to see the Count, and 
have heard St. Aubin say, 4 He is not at home at 
present, ’ or 4 He cannot be disturbed. ’ They have 
never, one of them, so much as laid eyes on him to 
their knowledge. He employs Halle to do the busi¬ 
ness part of it.” 

44 Tliat I know very well,” remarked Quentin, and 
then he told Yalery about his encounter with the 
priest in the glade, and Halle’s language, which Gar- 
tlia’s presence did not seem to check. 

44 Oh, I know Halle,” said Yalery; “you can’t tell 
me anything about Halle. He went into the church 
for a living. I have never had any respect for him. 
Now, Alixe thinks him a badly abused man, and 
much as she likes the Archbishop, she thinks, and 
always has thought, him prejudiced against Halle. I 
wonder if we must speak of the poor old fellow in the 
past tense. Is he dead, I wonder? Did you see? ” 

44 At first he was thought dead; but I find here a 


380 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


later bulletin which says he is still living. It was late 
last night, when he was coming from a visit to the 
Cardinal.” 

“Poor old man, it will break Alixe’s heart, and 
Gartha’s, poor little minx! She said she would have 
married His Grace were it not against the rules 
of the church, and you may come in only second 
best. There is a certain John MacDonald at Bally- 
rogan-” 

“My young nephew, I suppose,” said Quentin. 
“ I took him over there when I came out, to see his 
father’s relatives. So Gartha has met Jan, has 
she?” 

Yalery laughed. “ How funny that is! We never 
mentioned you, and the boy did not. To think that 
he should be your nephew! ” 

“The son of my only sister,” said Quentin. “She 
married a Scotchman named MacDonald, and he died 
shortly after she did, leaving the lad to me.” 

“We must have him over here.” 

“Perhaps, later,” acquiesced Quentin. 

“I’ve just thought of something, Quentin,” said 
Yalery. “Mamasha wanted me to get Alixe’s jewels 
from the banker. She wants to wear them at the 
wedding. I forgot all about it and wrote to Alixe 
only the other day. She gave me an order this 
morning. Will you go with me? ” 

“Yes,” said Quentin, “I have nothing to do.” 

The two men went down the stairs and over to the 
banker’s. Quentin followed Yalery to the person in 
charge of the jewels, and witnessed his look of aston¬ 
ishment when Yalery produced the order signed by 
the Ducliesse di Brazzia. 

“But the jewels are not here,” said the clerk. 


THE AKCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 381 

“ The Duchess sent for them only about three days 
ago.” 

“ Oh, no! ” insisted Yalery, "for here is the order.” 

"But I had another order very similar to that,” re¬ 
plied the clerk. “ It did not look as fresh as this, but 
it was an order all the same, and signed by the 
Duchess.” 

“ Who presented it? ” demanded Yalery, who was 
now thoroughly frightened. 

"Madame Petrofsky.” 

"Did she say she wished the jewels? ” 

"No, she only said that her niece, the Duchess, 
wanted them, and as she brought me the signed 
order-” 

" Was the body of the order in her hand—the Duch¬ 
ess’s, I mean? ” 

"No, that was written by Madame Petrofsky. I 
know her handwriting very well.” The clerk smiled 
faintly as he remembered various requests for loans 
which were always in the end repaid by the Duchesse 
di Brazzia. 

"That is very strange,” said Yalery. "And you 
say that Madame Petrofsky presented the order her¬ 
self? ” 

" Yes, Mr. Yalery, I am quite sure of it. I waited 
on Madame Petrofsky. The jewels are too valuable 
to trust to an ordinary clerk.” 

"I must see about this,” said Yalery as he walked 
out with Quentin. “That fellow may have made a 
mistake. Mamasha may not have been here at all, 
and if so, Madame la Duchesse Alixe is out of a tidy 
little sum. You’ll excuse my going off, Quentin. 
I’ll just run up and see Mamasha, and make sure 
about this business.” 


XLHI. 


It was not until after the two had parted that Quen¬ 
tin realized that he had learned nothing more of 
Alixe than he had known before he met Valery. 

When Valery arrived at Madame’s apartment, he 
was told by Jeanne, her maid of all work, that she was 
not at home, but Mademoiselle entertained him for 
the few moments that he was obliged to wait. Valery 
was just about to take his departure, when he heard a 
hurried ring at the bell, and a second one before 
Jeanne could go to the door, and Madame came rush¬ 
ing in from the little entrance hall in the greatest 
haste. She breathed as if she had run all the way up 
the two flights from the street. 

“ Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle! Where is the key 
of my desk? Have you seen it? ” Her face was 
flushed, her tone was agitated. She did not perceive 
Valery, in the dark little salon, but ran to the desk in 
the corner. 

“ Oh! here it is in the lock. How careless of me! 
Thank heaven! ” She snapped the lid to, turned the 
key in the lock, and dropped it in her pocket, then 
sank into a low chair, quite out of breath. 

“ Has any one been in the room, Mademoiselle? ” 

“Yes, I’ve been here, Mamasha,” said Valery, from 
his dark corner, “and here I am still. Gracious! 
How you jump, Mamasha. This talk of getting mar- 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 383 


riecl must have got on to your nerves; but why it 
should, having become a fixed habit as it were-” 

“Valery! How you frighten me! I had no idea 
that you were here! When did you get here? What 
business have you to come into people’s rooms and 
sit in a dark corner? It’s almost like spying upon 
them, Valery. How can you make me so nervous?” 

“I didn’t want to make you nervous, dear old 
Mamasha. I just dropped in to speak to you about 
a little matter of which you wrote me some time 
ago.” 

“ But you have already sent-Mademoiselle, will 

you kindly withdraw?” Mademoiselle glided from 
the room leaving the door open the width of a crack. 
“ Fermez, fermez! ” called Madame. 

Mademoiselle gave the door a decided little bang, 
so promptly that it told at once of her still being in 
the vicinity, and then the door flew open again. 

Madame crossed the room and closed it gently, but 
firmly. It was the way in which Madame did a great 
many things. That is, when she was not nervous. 

“You sent me the second draft, Valery. Oh, you 
dear! I haven’t cashed it yet. You don’t mean to 
say that you intend sending me another one? ” 

“Well—ha—hem—• Such had not been my inten¬ 
tion, Mamasha, but, since you remind me of it-” 

“ Oh, you dear! ” repeated Madame, sinking con¬ 
tentedly back into her seat. Valery’s gaze was fixed 
upon the desk which Madame had just locked in ner¬ 
vous haste. “What’s in that escritoire? ” he asked 
bluntly. 

“Oh, nothing of any importance. Only private 
matters of my own.” 

“Love letters from Eldon, I suppose.” Madame, 


384 THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


who had looked down in embarrassment, looked up 
and smiled at this very pleasant solution of the diffi¬ 
culty. 

"I dropped in to see you about another little mat¬ 
ter, Mamasha. You remember you wrote me some 
time ago that you wanted to borrow Alixe’s jewels for 
the wedding, and I thought-” 

“Valery,” said Madame hurriedly, “I have decided 
not to ask for them now. I do not need them. Lord 
Eldon has given me some very handsome things, and 
I find those will be enough.” 

“ And you don’t want me to get them for you, Ma¬ 
masha?” said Valery, very distinctly. 

“No, no! I beg of you, Valery, dear, do not go. 
I have been thinking that it was rather presuming to 
ask them of Alixe, and I hope that you will say noth¬ 
ing more about the matter.” 

“ But I have an order from Alixe that I brought up 
with me to-day from the Abbey.” 

Madame gave a sudden short gasp. Valery knew 
what sort of feeling she was experiencing, but she did 
not know that he understood the meaning of the gasp. 
It was as if she had said, “ Then I need not have done 
it after all! ” 

“ Well, Valery, dear, please do nothing about it. 
If Alixe is going into the sisterhood, it would be well 
to get them out beforehand; but at present we had 
better wait and see what happens.” 

“And you have asked nothing about Gartha, 
Mamasha! ” 

“You have not given me time, Valery,” exclaimed 
Madame, “with all your queer statements, and both¬ 
ers, and suggestions. How is the dear child? ” 

“ She has been very ill. Yesterday-” 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 385 


“Do yon think it will prevent the wedding? ” asked 
Madame anxiously. 

“Well, I hardly know,” answered Yalery; “yester¬ 
day she wanted me to call the servants round her to 
bid them farewell.” 

“ Poor child! Poor child! ” said Madame, who had 
fits of caring for Gartha. “ And if she is ill, why are 
you here? ” 

Yalery told Madame of the scene in Gartha’s room, 
holding for the moment his other business in abey¬ 
ance. At this amusing tale Madame recovered her 
spirits, and laughed again, the nervous look passing 
from her face. 

“And you have heard of the Archbishop?” 

“Yes,” said Madame, “that is what took me out 
this morning. I was going over there to inquire 
when suddenly I missed my key.” 

“As you will miss it again,” said Yalery, picking 
up the key from the floor. 

“ Oh, thank you, Yalery ! How hard it is to keep 
one’s keys.” She held out her hand. “Thank you, 
Yalery.” She still held out her hand. “Come, give 
me my key.” 

“ Why are you so anxious for this key, Mamasha? ” 

“ Why—why—it—it—is my key, is it not? Why 
should I not have it? ” 

“ Because you aren’t the proper person to have it. 
I intend to keep this key, and I intend to use it, and 
I intend-” 

“ To—to—do what, Yalery? Oh, Yalery! what do 
you mean to do? ” 

Madame was deathly white, all but the small red 
spots on either cheek, which no amount of fear could 
wash away. “ Are you going to open my desk? ” 

25 


386 THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“With your usual, unerring accuracy, Mamasha, 
dear, you have called the turn.” 

“ Why should you open my desk? ” 

“ Simply because I want to see what you guard so 
carefully inside.” 

“You are impertinent, Yalery—as I told you, only 
a few private-” 

“Oh, don’t be afraid. I have no wish to read El¬ 
don’s vaporings to my mother-in-law. I merely 
wish-” 

“To do what?” 

“To open the desk.” 

“ You said that before, and for what, Yalery ? Why 
do you wish to open it? ” 

“It is a whim of mine.” 

“You shall not open my desk.” 

“I am very sorry, dear old Mamasha, but I am 
afraid I shall have to. I am stronger than you.” 

“You great, African brute!” said Madame. 
“Would you open my desk by force?” 

“Don’t call names, dear Mamasha. Yes, I would 
open your desk by force, and here goes.” Yalery 
arose and took a step toward the desk. 

“Yalery! Yalery! Do not do such a thing. Let 
me open my own desk; give me the key.” 

“Yery well, Mamasha. Some one has to do it; 
why not you? ” 

Madame took the key from Yalery, and approached 
the desk, slowly, looking at her son-in-law over her 
shoulder, with a sidelong glance. 

“ Do you really mean it. Must I unlock my desk 
for you? ” 

“ Yes, Mamasha, dear, as I told you, I am stronger 
than you—and a great deal more honest--” 




THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 387 


“ But not as quick-witted, ” exclaimed Madame, as 
slie suddenly sprang to the side of the room, stooped, 
and pushed the key down into the opening of the 
American register near which she stood. There was 
dead silence, broken only by the key as it went jan¬ 
gling on its journey to the regions below. 

Yalery bit his lip. 

“Now, what are you going to do? ” Madame’s tone 
was more than triumphant. 

“ You little cat! ” said Yalery. “ Even if you are my 
mother-in-law, I cannot be as respectful as your age 
demands. Y r ou little cat! ” 

She sank back on the sofa. His breath came fast, 
he glared at Madame. 

"I—I—am a very young mother-in-law, Yalery,” 
said Madame, half crying. 

“ Yes, but a little cat all the same. You are only 
putting off the evil day, Mamasha, dear, for that desk 
must be opened.” 

“And why? It is my personal property.” Ma¬ 
dame seemed to gain courage from her own attempt to 
appear courageous. “ Yalery, if you do not get up 
from that seat at once, and go out of that door, I will 
send for the police to put you out.” 

“ Oh, Mamasha, Mamasha! That would indeed be 
a scandal! That would be a scene!—to put your 
own son-in-law out of the house; but nothing to the 
scandal that would happen later.” 

“What do you mean?” asked Madame, trembling, 
and breathing very fast. 

“ You had better have the lock picked, Mamasha, 
and let me look into the desk. That will save your 
reputation. ” 

“No, Yalery, I will not have the lock picked, nor 


388 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


will I let yon examine my escritoire.” Slie went to 
tlie bell and rang it. "We shall see whose wits are 
the better, yours or mine.” To the maid who ap¬ 
peared: “Jeanne, telephone for a sergent de ville.” 

“But, Madame-” 

“ Do as I tell you, telephone for a sergent de ville. ” 

“You had better not, Jeanne, my good girl, if you 
know what is good for you,” said Valery. 

“Jeanne, will you do as I tell you and telephone 
for a sergent de ville? ” 

There was the sound of the outer door of the apart¬ 
ment shutting loudly. “Who is that?” called Ma¬ 
dame. “Go at once, Jeanne.” 

“ Oh, Madame,” Jeanne was bathed in tears, “ Mon¬ 
sieur Valery has been so good to me-” 

“There, Mamasha,” said Valery triumphantly. 
“You see what louis and laughter are, as against 
francs and frowns.” 

“I would scorn to buy affection,” said Madame. 

“I know you would, Mamasha,” said Valery, “it 
might deplete your bank account.” He turned to the 
maid. “Jeanne, go for a locksmith.” 

“Oui, Monsieur,” said Jeanne. 

“You will do nothing of the kind, Jeanne.” 

“I go for my bonnet, Monsieur Valery,” said 
Jeanne, to whom Madame had already given warning. 
Valery ran to the door, and called after Jeanne down 
the corridor. “I have changed my mind, Jeanne. 
Go for a policeman, and bring two if you can find 
them.” Jeanne flew along the hall, Madame close 
behind her. Since Monsieur Valery wished the ser- 
gents de ville, Jeanne, expecting to have her little 
bonnet snatched from her hand, turned defiantly to¬ 
ward Madame as she took it down from the peg; but 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 389 


Madame was not worrying her mind about bonnets. 
She dexterously slipped the key from the look, in¬ 
serted it on the outside of the door, and before Jeanne, 
who had gone into an inner room to set her bonnet 
straight at the glass, returned, Madame had locked 
her within the room. 

“There,” called Madame, “if you want the sergent 
de ville, then I do not. We have never agreed very 
well, have we, Valery?” 

“ It is a lady’s privilege to change her mind,” called 
back Valery. 

“ What is that rattling sound, Mamasha dear? ” 
asked he, as he came through the dining-room into 
the corridor and halted just outside the kitchen 
door. 

“Another key, Valery dear,” Madame smiled 
sweetly. 

“ You’ll have the register full of keys, won’t you, 
dear old Mamasha? ” There was war in Valery’s 
eye as he advanced toward the little woman. 

“ Mademoiselle,” shrieked Madame. There was no 
answer. Mademoiselle had suddenly left the apart¬ 
ment. 

“Now, Mamasha,” said Valery persistently, “I in¬ 
tend to see into that desk, sooner or later. I can go 
out and lock you in, by physical force, a means which 
I hesitate to use upon a lady, more than all upon my 
own dear mother-in-law, and I can go down-stairs 
and get the concierge to send some one up here to 
take the desk away. The alternative is that I can 
smash it with my foot.” 

Madame glanced at the russet shoes. 

“ They’re big enough for anything,” said she. Her 
son-in-law made a motion to approach the desk. 


390 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“Don’t do tliat, Valery,” Madame was again tearful 
and submissive. 

“Very well, then, I shall go out and send for a 
locksmith to release my friend, Jeanne——” 

Madame sniffed and bridled. “ Your friend, 
Jeanne!” 

“And while he is here he can open the desk,” Val¬ 
ery continued, as if his remarks had not been inter¬ 
rupted. “Now, which will you prefer, dearest Ma- 
masha? ” 

“Valery, you are a great, big, overgrown, African 
savage. What Allaire ever wanted to marry you 
for-” 

“Poor little Allaire,” said Valery, with a sigh 
which always accompanied the mention of his dead 
wife, “ I don’t think she did, Mamasha. It was you 
who thrust her at me, poor little dear! and I thank 
you every day of my life for two years of real happi¬ 
ness. I made her happy, too.” 

Here was Madame’s opportunity. 

“ And how badly dear Allaire would feel to know 
that her poor little mother was being bullied by a 
great big brute of a-” 

Valery rose shamefacedly. 

“That is true, Mamasha. That is true. If you 
will tell me honestly what is in that desk, I will go 
away and leave you.” 

“ You will go away and leave me-” 

“Yes, if you tell me truly.” 

“And you won’t tell Alixe?” 

“ I will tell no one, Mamasha. ” 

“ Well, then, they are Alixe’s jewels.” 

“I knew it,” said Valery, in tones full of convic¬ 
tion. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 391 

“How did you know it? ” 

“ I have been to the banker’s, for one thing; for an¬ 
other, because you said that you had decided not to 
ask for them.” 

“And what did he tell you—the banker, I mean? ” 
asked Madame nervously. 

“He told me that you had brought an order from 
Alixe. Oh, Mamasha! Mamasha! A forger, and at 
your early age.” 

“It is false, Yalery. I had an order signed in 
Alixe’s handwriting.” 

“When did she sign it? Ah, Mamasha, Mama¬ 
sha, that statement is what the Americans call 4 too 
thin.’ C’est cousu de fil blanc.” 

Madame hesitated. 

“When? ” asked Yalery. 

“Well—well—Yalery, she—she—signed it—some, 
some years ago.” 

“ Some years ago! Why, she wasn’t married some 
years ago.” 

“It depends on what you call some years; say two 
years ago.” 

“ There are all ways of looking at things; observez 
l’integrite en tout, Mamasha.” 

“I am willing to confess to you, Yalery,” said 
Madame in a serious tone, “ that it was not lately—• 
in fact, that the order for the jewels was written after 
the signature was placed upon the paper; but that it 
is Alixe’s signature, you yourself would be obliged to 
swear in a court of justice.” 

“Let me see it,” said Yalery. 

“They have it at the bank,” said Madame. 

“How did you happen to have Alixe’s signature? ” 

“ Why, there was an old writing pad on which I 


392 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


made Alixe practise lier name just before she married 
the dear Duke. I made her write 'Alixe, Duchesse 
di Brazzia,’ 'Alixe, Duchesse di Brazzia,’ several 
times-” 

“ Not knowing how soon you would wish to use it. 
Oh, Mamasha, Mamasha! Fie, oh, fie!” 

“ There was no harm in it,” said Madame, speaking 
very fast. "You needn’t be so collet monte, Valery ! 
Valery! a poor woman who lives as I do, one little 
bonne a tout faire, no luxuries, no bank account, who 
lives, you may say, on charity, and has a chance to 
marry a man of title-” 

At this moment there was a ring at the outer bell. 

“I will go,” said Madame. 

"And I will stay with the jewels,” said Valery. 

Madame passed out of the door to return almost 
immediately, followed by Jeanne, who was in turn fol¬ 
lowed by two rather sturdy-looking sergents de ville. 

“It is the lady,” began Jeanne in her weak, fright¬ 
ened voice. 

" How under heaven, Jeanne-” 

“ Through the window by the escalier de service, 
Monsieur. It is the lady, Messieurs, whom-” 

Madame thrust Jeanne aside and faced the fore¬ 
most of the men. "I order you to arrest this man,” 
she said, pointing to Valery. " He is in my apart¬ 
ments making a disturbance.” 

"Monsieur l’officier,” began Valery, but Madame 
was too quick for him, with her sweet voice, and 
sweeter ways, and sweetest eyes. 

“Officer,” she repeated, "arrest that man.” Ma¬ 
dame’s tone was tragic. The officer gazed at her a 
moment. 

“Is it that I must arrest the Monsieur? ” 


THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 393 

“Yes, yes! You see that I am. alone. This man 
forces himself upon me—he-” 

“ I hope that the Monsieur will pardon me, ” said 
the officer. “I hope that the Monsieur will make no 
disturbance. I should not like to use force upon the 
Monsieur.” 

“Faith, an’ I could do for the two of you,” said 
Valery. 

“This is an insane man,” said Madame. “How he 
got in here I do not know.” The sergent de ville’s 
eyes wandered and wondered over Valery’s butterfly 
costume and angry face. 

“ Where do you come from? ” he demanded shortly. 

Valery laughed, the laugh was a sardonic one; in 
that laugh the sergent de ville heard the proof of in¬ 
sanity which Madame had declared was there. He 
glanced behind him to see that his double was within 
safe distance. There was evidence of hard muscle 
underneath the light sleeve of H. Valery, Esq. 

“Mamasha,” said Valery, with an unpleasant glit¬ 
ter of the eye, “I would smash that desk into splin¬ 
ters, but for the distress that it would cause Alixe. 
I don’t want her to be disgraced more than necessary 
by her own mother.” 

“ Not to mention yourself, ” added Madame quickly. 
Then, in French, to the sergent de ville: “You do 
not understand this man, Monsieur. He threatens to 
break open my escritoire. It contains family jewels 
and important papers. You must arrest him at 
once. Instead of being crazy, I think now that he 
is drunk. II est gris, gris, Monsieur, gris comme un 
cordelier! ” 

“ I hope that Monsieur will make no disturbance, 
that Monsieur will not compel me to use force, but 


394 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


since Madame makes tliis charge—it is Madame’s 
apartment, I suppose-” 

“Oh, yes—yes—it’s her apartment fast enough.” 

Yalery arose and saluted Madame in the most ras- 
taquouerian manner, his hat sweeping the floor. 

“Mamasha,” said he, “I bow to your superior wit, 
and cleverness, and beauty. I believe you’d flirt with 
the coal carrier. Good-by ! You win this time, dear 
old Mamasha, but next time look out! ” 

As Yalery walked down the stairs, Madame called 
shrilly, “Jeanne, Jeanne, get me a fiacre. I must go 
at once to the bank, and you must come with me.” 
Jeanne, now that her champion Yalery had gone, es¬ 
corted by two officers, the sight of whom causes the 
bourgeois element to shake as if in the clutches of a 
chill, Jeanne, the vacillating, wilted and sought a 
fiacre. 

“And Mademoiselle, when she returns, Madame? ” 

“ She should not have gone out,” Madame answered 
her bonne a tout faire; “ she can wait now, as other 
people will have to do.” Madame locked the outer 
door and slipped the key within her pocket. “ Tell 
him to stop at a locksmith’s coming home, Jeanne. 
I shall need him an hour later. To the bank! ” said 
Madame to the cocher, “ and if you drive well, double 
pourboire.” 

When Madame entered the bank, she at once en¬ 
dorsed a large draft, of whom the payee was Annie 
Petrofsky, the payer H. Yalery. 

“Will you deposit any part of this, Madame Petrof¬ 
sky ? ” asked the paying teller. 

“No, I’ll take it all, thank you; all.” Madame 
sighed happily as she received the money. 

“Just think what he might have done!” she com- 


THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 395 


muned with herself, as she counted out the rouleaux 
of gold. “ If he were not in the police office at this 
moment, explaining matters, he might be counter¬ 
manding the order for this delightfully large sum of 
louis.” 

As Madame returned to her apartment she halted 
the cocker twice: once to send a locksmith to her 
rooms, and the other to write a telegram. Her bride¬ 
groom, like all impatient, middle-aged lovers, would 
have been glad to have fixed an earlier date for the 
day of the wedding. Madame had put him coyly 
off, but to-day she seemed to think better of it. Her 
telegram was addressed to Lord Eldon, Eldon Towers, 
England, and read: 

“ I feel now as you do. Can arrange for the day 
after to-morrow if you can get here. Let me know. 
Cannot have a grand affair on account of accident to 
Gartha. Answer.” 

Lord Eldon was all smiles as he started for the lit¬ 
tle station near his place—smiles not driven away by 
Madame’s leaving him to pay the charges for the 
message. He sped swiftly on Love’s wings to the con¬ 
tinent. 

On the day after Yalery had been asked to leave 
Madame’s apartments, and had acquiesced, had been 
escorted to the police office, had sent for an influential 
French friend, and had explained, and been apologized 
to, he was sitting in his rooms wondering, as he ex¬ 
pressed it, how he could get even with Mamasha. As 
thus he sat, a telegram was brought in. It was early 
morning, and the Rastaquouere was sipping his black 
coffee in a suit of pajamas which made him more re¬ 
semble a tropical butterfly than anything he had ever 
worn. The ground of his breakfast suit was yellow; 


396 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


tlie bars were very broad and of deep blue, with spaces 
between. There was an occasional cross stripe of red, 
which completed a pattern that could only be well 
shown by two arbiters of fashion. 

Yalery made a wry face and set down his cup. He 
rang, and the spruce breakfast waiter appeared at 
once. H. Yalery, Esquire, gave too generous tips 
for any gar^on to keep him waiting one moment long¬ 
er than necessary. 

“ Alphonse, ” he said, in the best French that he 
could muster, “please give my compliments to the 
maitre d’hotel, and tell him that I should like more 
coffee and less burnt bread crusts-” 

“ But I assure the Monsieur, ” said Alphonse, in the 
most perfect English, “that the coffee is made of pure 
coffee, and is made fresh every day, and is bought at 
Potin’s, and is made by the chef, in the finest cop¬ 
per utensils of the batterie de cuisine, and is-” 

“ Tu paries! Charles, tu paries! ” said Yalery in the 
slang of the day, shaking his flat hand at the man 
with a patting motion in the air. “ Tu paries, Charles ! 
Go tell the maitre d’hotel. ” 

There was a knock at the door. Alfonse opened 
it, to receive a telegraphic message for H. Yalery, 
Esquire, which he handed to that gentleman. Yalery 
jumped from his seat. He forgot his coffee, he for¬ 
got his wish to snub Alphonse for his much speaking, 
he seized the paper and tore it open at once. He 
hardly allowed his eyes to skim along the lines before 
he dashed the telegram to the floor, and began seizing 
various articles of dress, and crowding them into a 
valise. His face was white, his hands shaking so 
that he could not hold a piece of clothing when he 
had taken it from the chair. 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 397 


“Send that lazy Savin up here at once,” he said. 
“Here, Savin, where have you been? Pack these 
things at once; order me a cab, somebody. I must get 
away at once. No, leave the other things. Here, 
lock up the rooms and let us be off.” 

Valery had started out of the door with a high hat 
upon his head, his feet thrust into a pair of red cloth 
slippers, and no other clothing than the yellow and 
blue night-suit. As many times as he had cut a cu¬ 
rious figure because of his florid taste in dress, this 
moment eclipsed them all. When Alphonse reminded 
him that he could hardly take the train in such a cos¬ 
tume, he growled, then raged, and wept alternately, 
and finally sent Savin on to the station for the tickets. 

The telegram was from Alixe, and read, “ Come at 
once.” Naturally, Valery’s heart gave a bound. 
Gartha was his first thought. 

“How could I go and leave the child?” he ex¬ 
claimed aloud. “How could I? ” 


XLIY. 


When the priest had found himself upon the wrong 
side of the door, he shivered again with fright. His 
teeth chattered, he reeled and put his hand to his 
head. Then he listened. He could hear nothing but 
the vain efforts of Alixe to push the great bed back 
into its proper position. He dared not move, for he 
knew that there were stairs somewhere in the vicinity, 
and he feared to plunge down them headlong. He 
searched within his pockets and found a few matches. 
These he began to strike. The first one showed him 
the circular stairs leading downward from the Lady 
Abbess’s room, and the others lighted his way to the 
bottom. He remembered the door at the foot of these 
stairs, and he unbolted it and stepped forth into the 
night. 

The garden lay bathed in a mist of silver. The 
tall, red lilies were bent and weighted down with the 
moisture of the night. He listened. There was now 
no near sound, he heard only the distant whistle of a 
night train, and he stepped boldly out and descended 
the steps of the garden. The stars were shining over¬ 
head. He saw them twinkle through the moonlit 
mist. He saw the dim shape of the Abbey. He felt 
the cold dew of midnight on every blade and leaf that 
his sole crushed as he walked. He knew not where 
to go. The miller’s family had never liked him, be¬ 
cause of some real or fancied attentions which were 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 399 


more tlian priestly toward Marie Monrouge, and he 
felt that Pierre might do him bodily violence if he 
should ask refuge at the mill. As Halle walked and 
thought, he stepped within the ruins. He started 
back fearfully, holy man that he was! for there, in a 
remote corner, was a figure in some sort of light dra- 
pery. 

“Who is there?” he demanded, though his knees 
shook under him, proof positive that he could be no 
good Catholic. 

“ Sh-h-h! ” A finger was raised as the ghostly whis¬ 
per came through the mist. The figure advanced; 
Halle began to retreat. 

“In the name of God, what are you? ” he shouted. 

There was an answering shout outside the ruins: 
“ Trapped!” 

“ Oh, Father! Father! You have made a mistake. 
Fly ! Fly! They are not gone.” 

As Marie Monrouge was speaking, Halle heard the 
sound of running feet. He turned and fled through 
the further door of the Abbey, and along on the top 
of the oubliette. There was the sound of hastening 
footsteps, and three men dashed through the archway 
and into the ruined interior. Marie Monrouge, trans¬ 
fixed with fright, was a sight which they did not ex¬ 
pect. They all started back in dismay to see this 
pale, misty figure within the Abbey walls. Marie 
Monrouge was quick-witted. She thought to her¬ 
self, “ The longer I can persuade them that I am a 
spirit, the better for the Father. ” 

She heard the sound of Halle’s feet as he sped 
along outside the walls. She waved a ghostly arm, 
and the men drew back. 

Finally one said: “ Do you not hear the sound of 


400 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


running feet? This is some lure. Come, let us go 
after him.” 

They faced about and ran, turning their backs upon 
the supposed spirit. 

When Marie Monrouge found that she had had the 
effect of frightening the sergents de ville away, and 
that they had followed exactly in the priest’s foot¬ 
steps, she called in an agonizing voice: 

“Messieurs! Messieurs! That is not the way. 
If you are looking for the Father, he has gone back 
through the garden, up there by the chateau. I saw 
him but now-” 

But the pursuers had all passed out of the further 
archway and were beating the bush for their quarry. 
There, outside the walls, was an ancient grove, where 
the nuns used to walk, and the pursuers ran through 
the various paths, calling, and shouting, and ordering 
Halle to surrender. Finally, finding no one, they 
came out of the little wood and stood in consultation. 

“ I distinctly saw him as he crossed the flower gar¬ 
den,” said one. 

“Ah, ha! You were wise to take my advice, Cha¬ 
brol, ” said another. “ I knew that if we left the horses 
at the bend of the road and crept back on foot, we 
should have the villain.” 

“And now, which way? ” asked a third. 

“What is this grating?” said the first. He 
scratched a match and dropped it down. A scared 
white face, with deep-set eyes, looked up at him from 
its black depths. 

“He is here! He is here!” said number two. 
“There! Do you not see him? ” But the figure had 
disappeared from beneath the bell-shaped cover, or 
roof, of the cell, where it had been standing but a mo- 


THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 401 


ment before. The police now began to scour the field 
to find the entrance to the hiding-place of the hunted 
man. He had been run to earth. 

“They will have me,” he groaned aloud. Sud¬ 
denly, he bethought him of a passage where Gartha 
had crawled in one day, and had been drawn out 
nearly enveloped with spider’s webs. Halle looked 
anxiously this way and that. There was no other 
method of escape. Now he saw a light at the end of 
the passage through which he had fled. In a moment 
they would be upon him. The light came nearer, he 
heard voices, the ray was creeping, creeping along 
the ground. Anything would be better than capture, 
death even! Halle crouched at the dark entrance, 
upon hands and knees; he heard his pursuers behind 
him, then crept head foremost into the hole. Their 
lantern shed its beams a short distance, and then was 
lost in the darkness of the tunnel. He crawled on 
and on. Slimy toads squeaked and hopped aside. 
His head was pushed through great cobwebs which 
had not been disturbed for generations; once some¬ 
thing sinuous and long glided over his hand. Once 
his palm was laid upon a bone. He grasped it. It 
felt like the bone of a human being. An awful terror 
seized him. The place smelt of the charnel house. 
He fell upon his face, and as he fell, he clutched a 
round thing. His fingers were forced into a cavity; 
he knew that it was a skull; he could have sworn that 
the teeth had closed upon his hand. The terrors of 
the place were great, but nothing to the horrors that 
he was leaving behind. He heard a shout, a muffled 
shout, for his crawling figure nearly closed up the 
passage. What if one of them, smaller than the rest, 
should try to follow him? What if he should be 
26 


402 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


crawling close behind with his bayonet? What if he 
should shoot him through the body as he pushed 
slowly and helplessly forward? He endeavored to 
turn himself about, but the passage was too narrow 
for that, and he realized at once that he could never 
return unless he could manage to push himself back¬ 
ward, feet first. As he crawled, his mouth and nos¬ 
trils were filled with the dust of decay; hairy crea¬ 
tures crossed his hands, or fell upon his head, and 
wriggled their way amidst his hair or across his neck. 
But this, even this, was better than being taken alive, 
and he pushed on. Once he felt a sharp, stinging 
pain; then heard a distant report. 

Ah ! they were shooting at him then! Helpless as 
he was, caged in this narrow, stifling cylinder, should 
he turn, of what avail? He would be shot in the face, 
and then, when his dead body lay before her, and she 
looked down upon him—No, no! better push on. 
The place was getting stifling, something was pouring 
down over his eyes, dripping in front of him. His 
hands were wet. Ah! the bullet had struck him then. 
The thought made him faint, ill. He had always 
fainted at the sight of blood. He thought that he 
could smell it. He turned on his side, sick and dizzy. 
Was not there an opening further on? He had heard 
that this passageway had been built as a means of 
escape to the river, for use in the old times when the 
cloister had been attacked. Here, it was said, the 
gentle sisters had taken refuge. It was dark! So 
dark! He turned a little more, and felt with his fingers 
overhead. Yes, the low roof was arched, and ceiled 
with the same small stones which lined the entrance. 
If men had done this work, they must have been able 
to get out in some way. He turned again upon his 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 403 


face, raised his head and looked forward. All was 
black. He sought in vain for some faintest ray 
of daylight to show that the passage opened into the 
outer air. He fancied that he saw it. No, it was 
only the sparks of light dancing before his eyes. 
Something rustled behind him. Had one of those 
servants of the law come thus far after him? Should 
they have a hand-to-hand fight in the passage? He 
would be at a disadvantage, for he could not turn. 
Was the passage growing smaller, or was this a sud¬ 
den faintness which was overcoming him? Some¬ 
thing rustled again. Halle made a thrust with his 
foot. The unseen thing ran over his body, and set 
small, sharp teeth within the palm of his hand. The 
tortured being crawled on for a few paces; then a 
dreadful nausea overcame him, and he sank down, his 
head resting upon a heap of bones—the bones, per¬ 
haps, of some other creature who had been hunted to 
the death. 


XLV. 


When Valery reached the Abbey, he was met by 
Alixe at the grille which opened upon the terrace. 
Her face was pale, her eyes were hollow. 

“Valery,” she said, “you must take us away at 
once.” 

“Take you away, and where to? ” 

“Anywhere! I care not, only so that I leave this 
place! ” 

“And Gartha? ” 

“ The doctor says that with care she can travel.” 

“Where will you go, Alixe? ” 

“I have no choice. Anywhere! Anywhere!” 
And then Alixe told her brother-in-law of the priest’s 
visit on the previous night, of the visits of the sol¬ 
diers, their return, as Marie Monrouge had told it to 
her, and her belief that Halle had been taken or 
killed. 

“If he has been taken,” said Valery, “he probably 
deserves it.” 

“Oh! Valery. Do you really mean it? You can¬ 
not think him guilty of so grave a crime. I suppose 
that I should go to the dear Archbishop’s funeral, but 
Gartha-” 

“You have no need to go,” said Valery, smiling. 

“No? Oh, Valery ! You do not mean-” 

“ Yes, I do mean. I do mean that he is not dead, 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 405 

and there is a very good chance for his recovery. 
How soon can you be ready, Alixe? ” 

“ This moment, this afternoon. I-” 

“I cannot go until to-morrow, Alixe. There are 
one or two things that I must see to in Paris. Ma- 
masha—” He stopped. He would not destroy the 
daughter’s faith in the mother too entirely. 

“ What of my mother, Valery? ” 

“ Would—would you—I was only thinking that you 

might wish to see her-” 

“No, Valery, no! I wish only to get away with 
Gartlia. Only with Gartha. The poor little thing is 
so sallow and thin. More of a brownie than ever! ” 
“You don’t mind my going along as baby-tender 
and trunk-strapper, I suppose? ” 

Alixe smiled faintly. 

“ There, now! You look more like your old self, 
little sister! ” 

At this Alixe smiled again, as she gave Valery a 
level look from her splendid height. 

“Very well, then, I’ll go up and have a look at Gar¬ 
tha, and be off to Paris by the next train. Whom will 
you take with you? ” 

“ Marie Monrouge, ” said Alixe. “ Gartha is devoted 
to Marie Monrouge.” 

There was a ring at the gate. Alixe and Valery re¬ 
treated to the salon, Valery running up-stairs to 
Alixe’s room, where Gartha was sitting on a couch, 
putting together a map of Africa. 

“Oh, Valery, dear!” said the child, “I am trying 
so hard to learn all about the places where you have 
been. I hate puzzles and geography, but Alixe 
thought it would be of an amusement, and she sent for 
a puzzle map of Africa. Regardez, Valery! The 


406 THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


land won’t go in anywhere, and the Boers are always 
on top. ” 

“ Faith, yon’ll always find ’em on top!” said Val¬ 
ery, from his standpoint of Irish prejudice. A pre¬ 
diction which has not been fulfilled. “Do you want 
to go away ? ” 

“No, not peticly,” saidGartha, “but if Alixe wants 
me to, je m’enbats l’oeil.” Valery looked a trifle sol¬ 
emn at this outrageous slang, but how could he cor¬ 
rect her now? 

“So you like the map? ” 

“C’est epatant! The artist-peintre of Marie Mon¬ 
rouge, he teached me that C’est epatant! ” and Gartha 
laughed. “Are you coming with us, Papachen? ” 

“Oh, yes, I’m going to be bandbox-carrier to your 
two majesties.” 

This made Gartha laugh again. 

There was a knock at the door. It was Marie Mon¬ 
rouge. Her appearance resembled that of the rest of 
the human beings about the establishment. She was 
wild-eyed and frightened. “ Does not Marie Monrouge 
appear ridicule?” asked Gartha. “She was at the 
Abbey all the last night playing at ghosts. One of 
these revenants. Oh! how I wish I had saw her. I 
never saw a revenant. ” 

“ Madame la Duchesse sends me to say, monsieur, 
that a young monsieur is below waiting to speak with 
you.” 

“Who the devil can have followed me here? ” ex¬ 
claimed Valery. 

He ran down the stairs and found Alixe in conver¬ 
sation with a lad about eight years of age. 

“Why! Hola, Jan! How are you? Where did 
you come from? ” 


THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 407 


“How do you do, Mr. Yalery? I came from Ire¬ 
land, really, but I got taken past tlie station yester¬ 
day, down into the south of France, and had to get 
out, and come back on another train. How is Gar- 
tha, Mr. Yalery? ” 

“Eight as rain, as my prospective father-in-law 
would say. Have you come to see Gartha? ” 

“Yes, Mr. Yalery,” said Jan MacDonald, looking 
down with becoming embarrassment. “ I heard she 
has been hurt and was very ill. I should have been 
here a week ago, but my allowance had given out, 
and I had to wait for Uncle Jack’s next check.” 

“ So Quentin keeps you pretty short, does he? ” 

“No, sir,” said the lad, “but he didn’t expect me 
to come to France. I had to borrow all of Elsie, 
my cousin’s, allowance, and Ann Macune’s wages. 
Ann Macune is fond of Gartha—she was willing-” 

“ Who isn’t, Jan? Even the poor old Weasel. Come 
up-stairs.” 

Alixe rose and came toward the lad. 

“Do you mean that you are Mr. Quentin’s 
nephew?” she asked. She laid her hands on Jan’s 
shoulders and looked down into the fresh young face. 

“Yes, Madame, I am Jan. When can I see 
Gartha? ” 

“I will go and tell her that you are here,” said 
Alixe. “ Let me go, Yalery, and bring Jan up when 
Marie Monrouge comes for you.” 

“Nom de Dieu! I thought some of my lovers 
might be coming,” said Gartha, when she heard that 
Jan had arrived. “ Do not you know that song Mary 
Thorndike used to sing, when she used to puff and 
blow all the music off the piano, Alixe, about the dy¬ 
ing girl listening for her lover? I have been listening 


408 THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


just like tliat all tlie day. Tlie doctor may say that I 
am well, dear aunt, but I am not getting strong. I 
am thin and pale, and my food sits heavy on my 
stomach.” 

"I should think it might,” said Valery, who was 
mounting the stairs, not waiting for the summons, 
“ if what I have seen you eat this morning is a sam¬ 
ple. Here’s Jan, Gartha. Come all the way from 
the Scotch-Irisli border to see my little girl.” 

Gartha, taken unaware, lay hurriedly back among 
the pillows. She managed to give her eyes an ex¬ 
tremely hollow look; she drew her lips tightly over 
her teeth; she panted as if it were difficult to get her 
breath; she laid a wan and weary hand outside the 
shawl which covered her thin little legs, and when 
Alixe looked at it, she found that it was trembling like 
a leaf. The other was as steady as usual. 

"How do you do, Jan?” said Gartha, in a weak, 
faint voice. “ Cher ami, how I have longed for you.” 

At this fervent speech Jan looked up, then down. 
His embarrassment was so great that he stood in the 
middle of the room unable to move. There was a 
choking sound from the far corner of the room, where 
Yalery leaned out of the window. All that could be 
seen of his neck was very red; his great shoulders 
were shaking convulsively. 

“Do not weep, dear father,” said Gartha, anx¬ 
iously. “ I am going to a brighter and better home. 
I hear the angels, les anges, calling on the moment. ” 

At this fine speech Jan MacDonald gave one look at 
Gartha’s drawn lips and hollow eyes, and burst into 
a passion of sobs. 

“Gartha,” said Alixe, “how can you! See poor 
Jan! Sit up and behave yourself.” 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 409 


“Do not weep, dear Jan,” said Gartlia. “Come 
nearer and let me wipe your tears with my dear 
aunt’s handkerchief. There is one request that I 
want to make to you, Jan.” 

Jan’s crying was so loud that it drowned Yalery’s 
laughter. 

“ You know the white, white rose that grows within 
the Abbey yonder, dear, dearest Jan.” 

“ Don’t know nothin’ ’bout your old Abbey,” roared 
Jan, sobbing louder than ever. Gartlia sighed with 
pious resignation. 

“Nom de Dieu!” she said, gazing heavenward, 
“ but not to know my rose. My dear aunt will show 
you where it is when I am gone. Go to that 
bush-” 

By this time Jan had thrown himself upon the floor 
by the side of the couch, and was sobbing his boyish 
heart out upon Gartlia’s still trembling hand. 

“You—you said you was goin’ to grow up an’—an’ 
—mar—mar—ry—me,” sobbed Jan, “ and now you’re 
—you’re—goin’—to—die. You—you—’re—a be— 
lieast!” 

Gartlia withdrew her hand from beneath Jan’s wet 
face, and laid it, still shaking, on his curly head, re¬ 
membering suddenly a scene which she had gloated 
over in one of Marie Monrouge’s tales. 

“I could not marry you, dear Jan,” she said, “if I 
would. I am pre—pre-engage to your uncle.” 

“He’s—he’s—a beast, too,” roared Jan. 

Gartha sat up in bed, and held up one warning fin¬ 
ger toward Jan. 

“ Ta bouche! Bebe Rose,” she exclaimed with the 
proper gutturals. “ Ta bouche! ” 

“ Gartha! Gartha! ” 


410 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADA 


Gartha, on hearing Valery’s remonstrative tones, 
looked sweetly up in liis eyes. 

“ Tu paries ! Charles, tu paries! ” 

“ Gartha! ” It was Alixe whose horrified tones were 
heard now above Jan’s sobbings. 

“ Mamasha says it. I heard her say it to Harry 
Ware.” 

“ Come, now, Gartha, come down from your 
high horse and show Jan your puzzle map of Af¬ 
rica.” 

Poor Jan arose from his lowly position by Gar- 
tlia’s bedside. He was very angry, as well as much 
mortified, at being made a medium to amuse the 
grown-ups. He turned forlornly toward the door, 
his tears almost dried. 

“Don’t quarrel with the little girl, Jan,” called 
Valery. “ You know she’s somewhat fond of acting. 
She’s all right now, and I hope you’ll forget and 
forgive.” 

Jan stood sulkily in the middle distance. 

“V’la les Anglish,” piped Gartha, who seemed to 
be in her most vicious mood. Then, perceiving from 
Valery’s looks that she had gone too far, she hastily 
added: “ Le Eire says it! ” 

“So you read Le Eire,” commented Valery dryly. 
“Your education seems to be getting its finishing 
touches.” 

“ The artist-peintre sends it to Marie Monrouge,” 
explained Gartha. “We read it at the mill while 
Mere Monrouge knits. She clicks her tongue and 
says, ‘Si j’etais encore jeune!’ She lived in the 
Quartier, when she was gosse.” 

Valery left Jan at the Abbey, and took the after¬ 
noon train for Paris. His last words were, “ I shall 


THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 411 


come back to-morrow, all ready for a trip to the 
moon, if you say so.” 

Yalery, however, did not keep his promise. When 
he got to Paris, he found Quentin sitting in his rooms, 
where he had arrived soon after Yalery had left them. 

“Have you heard the news? ” asked Quentin.” 

“ It never rains but it pours,” said Yalery. “ Let’s 
have it. There can’t be worse or more of it than I 
have heard already.” 

“ What! What! ” stammered Quentin. “ Is Ma¬ 
dame, is Alixe-” 

“They are all right at the Abbey,” said Yalery. 
“ What is your news? ” 

“Haven’t you seen the morning papers?” asked 
Quentin. 

“ Haven’t looked at a paper to-day. Had no time. 
Don’t get ’em at the Abbey. Been on the keen jump 
all day! Not Mamasha! The dear old lady hasn’t 
slipped up on Eldon, has she? ” 

“Nothing so trivial as that,” said Quentin. “It’s 
about St. Aubin-” 

“ St. Aubin! ” repeated Yalery. “ St. Aubin! What 
has he been doing? Not robbing a bank? ” 

“Worse than that! Le Eigako says that he has 
killed himself.” 

“Oh, no, no, Quentin. Try something else. St. 
Aubin isn’t that kind. Tell me that-” 

“ I think it must be true,” said Quentin. “ The ac¬ 
count is very circumstantial-” 

“ Why should he kill himself? ” asked Yalery, in 
an awe-struck voice. 

“Bead the account, it is all there.” Quentin 
handed Yalery the journal. He carried it to the win¬ 
dow, for the light was waning, and read a few lines. 


412 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“Quentin,” lie said, turning to the other, “go down 
at once and telegraph in my name to the station at 
Moncousis. Tell them not to send the papers to the 
Abbey to-day or to-morrow—in fact, not until I come. 
Please go at once.” 

Quentin was out of the door and half-way down the 
stairs before Valery had finished his instructions. 

Then Valery stood by the window and read the 
dreadful story of how a small, dark stranger had 
driven to the wharf of a great ocean steamship, be¬ 
hind the dray that held his boxes. He kept them in 
sight every moment, was everywhere among the dray¬ 
men at the wharf, ordering that the boxes be removed 
with great care. They were packed with valuable and 
brittle glass, he said, and the least jar might break 
them. None of the boxes was heavy but one. This, 
the last one to be removed by the men, was slowly 
drawn along the bottom of the dray and rested on 
the extreme edge. At that moment the wharf-master 
shouted: 

“ What are you doing with those boxes? They do 
not belong here. Take them down to the other gang¬ 
way ! ” 

“These are my boxes,” said the stranger. “This 
box is to go into my stateroom.” 

“It is too high for a stateroom,” said the wharf- 
master. 

“ It is to go into my stateroom,” repeated the stran¬ 
ger persistently, as if unused to contradiction. 

“ Hi, there, you men, push that box back into the 
wagon. Take it down the wharf to the other gang¬ 
way,” said the wharf-master crossly. 

The men turned to listen to the altercation. One 
had released his hold; the other felt the box slipping, 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 413 


ancl fearing that it would fall upon his foot, sprang 
out of the way. He might as well have remained, for 
at that moment there was a terrific explosion. He 
was blown to a thousand atoms. Another, the dray¬ 
man, was killed, and several of the police were knocked 
senseless. 

The stranger, on seeing the explosion, ran on board 
the steamer, and down below into his stateroom. It 
was on the lower tier. There was the sound of a pis¬ 
tol shot. They found him lying on the floor, bleed¬ 
ing profusely and past all help. He died as they 
lifted him to the bed. “ It is impossible that it was 
St. Aubin,” said Valery aloud. “He always travels 
so luxuriously. He always took a deck cabin.” But 
on reading further, he began to see light through the 
darkness. Suspicion had already been aroused, and 
the busy police and journalists were at work probing 
the matter to the bottom. The box was found to con¬ 
tain a complicated mass of the most ingeniously con¬ 
structed mechanism, to which men had given the 
most pertinent of names, that of infernal machine. 
Different parts of it were picked up on the wharf 
where they had fallen, and enough was found to 
prove that this was the devilish plan of a devil’s na¬ 
ture. 

The body of the stranger had been identified by one 
of the Paris police, who had been sent to investi¬ 
gate the affair, as that of the Count St. Aubin. Then 
came forward the insurance company, who told the 
tale of the box having been insured lately with them, 
for a very large amount, by the Count St. Aubin. It 
was to be shipped on the steamer of that same date. 
In scanning their books they discovered that some¬ 
thing of the same kind had been done before. They 


414 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


found tliat the Count St. Aubin had insured other 
boxes for like large sums of money. The insurance 
had invariably been paid, for the steamers in which 
the boxes had been shipped had never been heard 
from! 

“ Virginia Danielli! ” muttered Valery to himself, 
shaking his head. “ Virginia Danielli! ” He sat 
down by the window and tried to reason it all out. 
Bruno was not contemplating an ocean voyage, of 
this he felt certain. He had gone to the German 
port to sail for Southampton. He had taken a room 
as near the bottom of the ship as possible. Had it 
been part of his plan to leave the steamer at South¬ 
ampton, and leave the box behind in that room in the 
bowels of the vessel? “Oh, my God!” exclaimed 
Valery. “Set, probably, so that it would explode 
within a given time.” Then he read from the journal 
this sentence: “A box had been deposited on the 
10th of August on board the Ocean Monarch, and 
insured at the company’s office by the Count St. 
Aubin.” 

Quentin found Valery walking up and down the 
room with his hands to his head. 

“I don’t know what to do, Quentin,” he said. 
“ Should I go and claim that yellow little carcass, or 
should I go back and take Alixe away? ” 

“Go and take her away, for God’s sake,” said 
Quentin. “ I will see to the burial, just as if you 
were here.” 

“You remember how they talked of liis emotion 
when Virginia Danielli was lost? I should think he 
would have shown emotion! He didn’t care a rap for 
Virginia; was rather jealous of the affection which 
Alixe showed for her, in fact; but I know he was sur- 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 415 


prised to find that she was going on that steamer. 
That time, perhaps, he had sent his box before him. 
It may have been on a bill of lading. It may have 
been put in the hold; and perhaps he was afraid to 
ask again for its return, for fear of giving the whole 
game away. I don’t know much about such things, 
thank God! He may have ordered it put on board in 
Southampton, and not have been able to stop the 
thing. Perhaps his tool, Halle, was over there, and 
got the box started before Bruno could stop him. A 
nice pair of murderers, trafficking in human blood! 
It makes me physically sick,” and Yalery promptly 
began to show how his feelings had overcome him, 
for, strong man as he was, he tumbled over in a- heap 
on the sofa. 

“And about the papers, Quentin?” asked Yalery, 
when he recovered himself. 

“ Oh, at Moncousis? They answered, that the jour¬ 
nals for some reason had failed to arrive to-day, and 
that they would keep them at the station, and not 
send them on to the Abbey, until further orders.” 

“And so you will bury the brute!” said Yalery. 
“If I had my way, I’d throw his little yellow car¬ 
cass into a hole with a lot of quicklime, the more the 
better.” 

“I will do what I can,” said Quentin. He tried to 
think. Pie found it difficult to collect his thoughts. 
How should he proceed? When should he start— 
where should he- 

The door burst open. It was Madame. 

“ Yalery, have you heard the news? ” Madame was 
crying, and the tears made little roads down her 
checks, and great inroads upon her complexion. 

“Yes, I’ve heard,” answered Yalery gloomily. 


416 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“Eldon hasn’t come,” said Mamasha. “I wonder 
if lie will give me up for that. I can’t imagine it. I 
am no relative to Bruno, that ame damnee! At least, 

he was only my sister’s child, and-” 

“If Eldon doesn’t give you up for something else, 
Mamasha, he won’t for this,” said Yalery. 

“What do you mean, Yalery?” Madame turned 
all colors. 

“You know what I mean. I’ve lodged a complaint 
before the juge de paix. You’ll excuse our talking 

family matters, Quentin-” 

“I’ll go away,” said Quentin, looking much dis¬ 
tressed. “ I had better go away—I have much to see 
to-” 

“ If you are going after that malefactor, Mr. Quen¬ 
tin,” began Madame, “if you condone that crime 
enorme-” 

“I am going, at Mr. Yalery’s request, to take 

charge of the body and bury it-” He turned to 

Yalery. “Where?” he said. “I know not where.” 

“ You need not think of bringing him to the Abbey, 
Mr. Quentin. I will not have him lie beside my dear 

General, and my little Allaire-” 

“You’re right for the first time in your life, Mama¬ 
sha,” said Yalery, “only where else but there? ” 
“Where, then?” asked Quentin, in his turn, facing 
Madame. “ Has his wife no voice in the matter? ” 

“ She won’t know anything about it,” said Madame, 
who, for once, agreed with her son-in-law. 

“As you say,” said Quentin, “certainly; but she 
may hold me accountable later.” 

“ She can’t, ” said Yalery. “ I am going to take her 
to Africa to-morrow.” 

“ To Africa! ” gasped Quentin. 





THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 417 

“Yes. She and Gartha and I. She told me to 
tell you that you could have the Abbey if you wish it, 
Mamasha.” 

“It will be the best place to go,” said Madame. 
“ I should not dare to face them all in England just at 
present. Please, dear Valery, and you, Mr. Quen¬ 
tin, when any one asks you what the relationship was 
between me and Bruno, say a very distant one.” 

“Every one knows that he was your son-in-law,” 
said Valery. 

“ Hum! ” said Madame, looking down and tapping 
her foot on the floor. 

“And most people know that you married your 
daughter to him against her will.” 

“ Oh, no, Valery, dear; Alixe was perfectly willing.” 

“ Yes, because you told her that poor Bruno had no 
money, and that only in that way could she share her 
fortune with him. See how he has squandered it.” 

“Yes, it was an unsuccessful experiment, I own. 
But later, she may be able to feel un grand bien s’en- 
suivit de tant de maux.” 

“And what are you going to do, Mr. Quentin?” 
Madame had not seen herself since her tears had 
dried, or she could not have so calmly faced her some¬ 
time love. 

“I am going to obey Valery’s orders,” said Quen¬ 
tin, “ and then—I don’t know.” A blank wall loomed 
up before Quentin. 

“ We’ve got your young nephew down at the Abbey, 
Quentin. Do you mind if we take him along with 
us? It’s a great thing for Gartha.” 

“Jan at the Abbey? How did he get there? ” 

Valery explained, and Quentin acceded to Valery’s 
request only too gladly. Jan’s going with Valery 
27 


418 THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


and his charges would be a bond, and Quentin deter¬ 
mined to write to his nephew much more often than 
he had been in the habit of doing. The question was, 
would the lad reply? Boys are so careless—he must 
write him a stern letter—give him a large allowance, 
perhaps—but no—that was not the right way to win 
a lad’s-- 

“You will come, dear friend? ” 

It was Madame’s voice. 

“ Come? Come to what? ” 

Quentin had been brought back to the realities of 
life by Madame’s sweet voice. 

“ Why, to the Abbey. I expect Eldon to-day, and 
after our marriage, I think we had better go there for 
a while. I shall go home at once and write to the 
Baron and Baroness-” 

“ The Baron is sitting right down here in front of 
Maxim’s,” said Yalery, “I saw him as I came along.” 

“You can’t expect me to go down to Maxim’s and 
say, ‘ Baron, will you come to the Abbey for a visit? ’ 
I will write to her, and to the Jenkins girls, and Mary 
Thorndike, and Lady Barnes, and Ada Silencer, and 
—you will come, too, dear friend? ” 

“I—I—hardly know. I must first attend to— 
to-” 

Quentin stopped short. His feelings revolted 
against going to the Abbey just after the dreadful 
task that lie had set himself to perform. And then, 
too, why should he go when the charm would be 
removed? 



XL VI. 


Valery’s man was packing his belongings, but the 
day was not long enough for all that he had to do. 
He sent constant telegrams to Alixe, telling her how 
matters were progressing, and on the third day he 
arrived at the Abbey. There he slept one night, and 
the following day saw the party of four on its way to 
Africa. 

Valery and Quentin had decided that it would 
not do to keep Alixe in ignorance of St. Aubin’s 
death. 

“ But I shan’t tell her, ” said Valery, “ until the little 
beast—I mean, Bruno—is buried, for she would think 
it proper to appear at the funeral, and then the whole 
thing would come out. Of course the world knows 
all the details, or will; but if we can keep it from 
Alixe for a while, that is all that I hope for.” 

Alixe had said to Valery, several times, that it was 
strange that she had not heard from Bruno. He had 
never been so long without writing. She feared that 
she had been too harsh with him, etc., etc. 

Valery parried the questions as best he could until 
they were on board the steamer, sailing for Cape 
Town. Alixe had been confined to her cabin for sev¬ 
eral days with a racking headache. That was not the 
time to tell her, and Valery, biding his time, waited 
until one bright morning in the tropics. She was sit¬ 
ting on deck, gazing with all the ardor of a romantic 


420 THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


girl at the trade-wind clouds, and picturing many 
charming scenes to her own satisfaction. 

“See, Valery,” she said, “there is the Archbishop. 
Do you not see his robes? See how he holds out his 
arms to me, as if he were begging me to return and 
take the vows that I almost promised him I would 
take. Ah! had I but seen him before I left home.” 

“ That was not possible, Alixe, ” said Valery. “ The 
physicians would allow no one to see him. You con¬ 
tributed to his recovery by remaining away. The ex¬ 
citement would have been too much for him.” 

“ And there is the Abbey. Do you see it, Valery? ” 

Valery looked toward the white spot against the 
blue on which the eyes of Alixe were fixed. 

“It certainly does look like the ruins,” said he, 
“ that is, to us. There is a horse-dealer over there, 
who, I suppose, would insist that it looks like a drove 
of animals, and that publisher would say that it looks 
like a pile of books. Some Parisian would declare 
that it was the exact counterpart of the Arc de l’Etoile. 
So it goes. One always sees that of which he is 
thinking, in the trade-wind clouds.” 

Alixe sat, still gazing at what to her seemed an ex¬ 
act representation of the Abbey. Finally she turned, 
and spoke as if with difficulty. It was as if the ques¬ 
tion must be asked and answered before she could 
have peace of mind. 

“Has Eobert Halle ever returned, Valery? ” 

“No,” said Valery. “I hear that they have proof 
positive that it w T as he who attacked the Archbishop.” 
Alixe was silent. Valery had expected a violent dis¬ 
claimer. “ I am surprised at you, Alixe! I thought 
that you were more loyal to Halle! ” Alixe was still 
silent. “ It seems terrible to think that one who has 


THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 421 


lived with ns as a boy and man could conceive such a 
dreadful act and try to carry it out.” Still Alixe did 
not answer. She was thinking, as she had almost 
every moment since it had occurred, of that dreadful 
look which Halle had given her, of his stretching out 
his dark, bony hands, of the step which he took to¬ 
ward her. The thought brought upon her almost a 
physical sickness. To think of it even was terrifying, 
and Valery’s words brought the scene before her so 
vividly, that scene which she was endeavoring so des¬ 
perately to forget, that she turned her face and hid it 
in her hands. 

“Don’t speak of him again, Valery,” she said. 
“Do not! I cannot bear it.” 

“You brought it upon yourself, Alixe.” 

“I—I—wanted to know, certainly. I thought I 
could-” 

Valery stood looking at her in amazement. Her 
shoulders were shaking in a nervous tremor. Her 
voice, when she spoke, was faint. 

“ You never told me anything to make me think that 
you did not wish him spoken of, Alixe. The morn¬ 
ing that I came to the Abbey post haste from Paris, 
you only said-” 

“Valery, do not! I tell you I cannot bear it.” 

Valery kept silent for a space. He was puzzled. 
Then he repeated: “You asked me, Alixe.” 

“Yes, I asked you. It was my fault. I thought 
myself stronger. What of Bruno? I have not heard 
from Bruno lately.” 

“Did—do you and he keep up such a violent corre¬ 
spondence? ” asked Valery. 

“ N—no. ” Alixe smiled faintly. “ But I generally 
know where he is. I know that I must have angered 


422 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


him greatly. Not with the talk of my going into a 
convent, but in other ways. He was never silent so 
long before. I suppose, when we return, he will come 
back to the Abbey. Do you think so? ” 

“I hardly know,” said Yalery. “How Gartha has 
improved! Do you notice it, Alixe?” 

“Dear little soul!” said Alixe. “Gartha is my 
mainstay. If anything serious should happen to 
Gartha—” Alixe’s eyes were full of tears. “ Of what 
are you thinking? ” 

Yalery was looking at her fixedly. 

“Alixe, I have some bad news for you.” 

Alixe sat upright. “Not Gartha? ” she said. 

“Gartha! Do you suppose that I should have 
stood gossiping here about Halle, if anything had 
happened to Gartha? There she is, leaning over the 
rail with Jan. No, Alixe, it is about some one else. 
You asked me about Bruno. You wish to know? ” 

The cheek of Alixe had regained its color. It was 
plain to Yalery that Bruno had never been to Alixe 
what Gartha was at that moment. 

“ Certainly I wish to know. What is it? ” 

“Alixe, what would you say if I told you that 
Bruno is very ill? ” 

“And you brought me away from France! Oh! 
Yalery, I who should be there to nurse him. That is 
my duty. What is the nearest port? How soon can I 
get there? How far is it? I have money, have I not? 
Enough to persuade them to put into the nearest 
port? ” 

“ What would you say if I told you that Bruno is 
dead, Alixe? ” 

“ Dead! How could you get the news! How could 
you—Do you mean to say—Yalery ! Yalery ! Do you 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 423 


mean to say that you knew this before we left the Ab¬ 
bey, and never told me? ” 

“Yes, Alixe, I mean to say that very thing.” 

“ Oh, Yalery ! How heartless ! How cruel! I who 
should have been the first to fly to his bedside, I 
who should have been with him when he died. For 
Bruno loved me—in his way—yes, in his way—” 
The tears were coursing down her face. She turned 
toward the rail, that the inquisitive promenaders 
might not notice her distress. Yalery lowered the 
umbrella, so that no one could see the evidence of her 
grief. 

“I did not think it of you, Yalery. Poor Bruno! 
He once told me that he could not die unless I closed 
his eyes. I was hard upon him, I fear; but I did not 
love him as I should have done. It was I who made 
him cross sometimes, and captious. An unloving 
wife!—but,”—she turned toward Yalery, her eyes 
raining floods of tears,—“I did not love him. I 
never should have allowed myself to be persuaded 
to marry him, never. I was not old enough to 
judge—I ” 

“ The trail of Mamaslia! ” said Yalery. “ Mamasha 
has spoiled several dozens of horns, and I can’t see 
that she has made any spoons to speak of, unless she 
hooked Eldon at the last. I don’t want to spoil her 
little game, so I never let Eldon into the skeleton 
closet at the Abbey. If I had-” 

“Don’t speak so,” said Alixe, still sobbing. “My 
mother has been a disappointed woman all her life. 
She never succeeded quite in what she undertook. I 
disappointed her-” 

“Faith, then,” said Yalery, “youdid your best not 
to, when you married the old duke-” 


424 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“ He was very kind to me. He might still have 
been kind as my husband. The poor duke did not 
realize anything from his marriage with me. He 
died and left me a rich woman. I should be grateful 
and-” 

“ If Mamasha had planned it, and had had the tak¬ 
ing of him off, it couldn’t have been better done.” 
Alixe smiled faintly through her tears. She was ac¬ 
customed to Yalery. 

“ Tell me the rest. Where was Bruno? ” 

“It was a sudden attack.” Yalery was determined 
not to tell her any of the circumstances. “ It was just 
as he was going to take the steamer. He did not 
miss you, Alixe. It was all over in a moment.” 

“Thank God for that! And—and—were you at 
the—the funeral, Yalery? ” 

“God forbid!” he ejaculated fervently. “1—I—- 
mean-•” 

Alixe was staring at him in surprise. “ I—I—mean 
I—I—couldn’t get there. I—I had so much, you— 
you—know, to do, and I—I ” 

“Yalery, what does all this stammering mean? 
Tell me at once! ” Alixe was sitting upright now. 
“ If you, the only person who could attend to it, turned 
your back on Bruno, who was there to see that the 
poor fellow was buried as befitted his position? 
Who was there to-” 

“ Quentin attended to it,” said Yalery humbly. 

A faint flush came to the cheek of Alixe. 

“ Mr. Quentin! And what had he to do with it, 
when you, my nearest relative—it is strange what a 
small family we have, Yalery, how few there are to 
take any interest. Had the Archbishop not been so 
ill, had Halle-” 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 425 


“ Tlie Archbishop wouldn’t have touched him with 
the tongs-” 

“Valery! Valery! He is dead. Bruno is dead! 
Do not speak so of him.” 

“ The church has nothing to do with suicides, Alixe, 
as you know well, ” blurted out Valery. He had hard¬ 
ly spoken before he could have bitten his tongue for 
his hastiness. 

“ Suicide! Suicide! Do you mean to tell me that 
Bruno killed himself? ” 

“Did—did—I say that?” Valery perceived at 
once the mischief that he had done all in a moment, 
and the far-reaching effect of it. 

“Yes! yes! You said suicide! Oh, Valery, Val¬ 
ery ! That Bruno should kill himself, and all because 
I could not love him. All because I could not and 
never have lived with him as his wife should do. 
Oh, dear, dear God! What shall I do? What shall 
I do? To have this sin on my conscience. This 
dreadful, dreadful sin. Can a whole life of penance 
atone? ” 

“ Now don’t ask any more; just enjoy yourself while 
you may.” 

“ Enjoy myself! And my mother? ” 

“ I suppose she went to the Abbey; I know Eldon 
came over to Paris on the third.” 

“ The very day you heard the news? ” 

“Yes, Mamasha came to see me about it in the 
morning. She was bathed in tears. Eldon arrived 
at about one o’clock, and she wiped her weeping 
eyes, as the Salvation Army used to sing to us out at 
the Rand, put on a little more rouge, got her special 
dispensation from the Pope, and her social dispensa¬ 
tions from the world, the flesh, and the devil, espe- 


426 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


cially the latter—but I believe Eldon had attended 
to all that beforehand, and was married by 4 p.m. 
There’s nothing money can’t do, Alixe, and that you’ll 
find out when you have given it all to the church, and 
haven’t any more to conjure with.” 

"It cannot save a soul,” said Alixe. “Oh, poor 
Bruno! Poor Bruno! ” 

Alixe arose and staggered along the deck to her 
own cabin. Yalery followed, penitent and downcast. 
When she reached the cabin, which was on the upper 
deck, she went in and closed the door very decidedly 
in Yalery’s face. He was haunted all night by the 
look in those eyes which had gazed at him, for the 
first time since he had known her, with reproach 
amounting almost to anger. 

Yalery did not see Alixe for several days. She kept 
herself closely locked within her cabin. Gartha con¬ 
fided to Jan the cause of this behavior on Alixe’s part. 
“Yalery says that my Uncle Bruno is dead. You 
know I always hated my Uncle Bruno-” 

“ There is a proverb that says, 4 Say nothing but 
good of the dead, ’ ” said Jan MacDonald. 

“ Nom de Dieu! Je le crois bien! Then we should 
never be able to speak of my Uncle Bruno again. 
The worst of it is, he killed himself, une blessure 
mortelle, you must know. I think it was because his 
chemicals esploded and nearly killed me. He was 
pobaly afraid that your uncle, to whom I am promis, 
you know, would go after him and give him 
what Harry Ware used to call ‘ peticlar fits, ’ so he 
killed himself.” 

“Does the Ducliesse know that he killed himself? ” 

“ Yes, ” said Gartha, “ and the most amusing thing 
^ all is, that she thinks he killed himself for love of 



THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 427 


lier. Quelle betise! John Quentin himself buried him 
because he was my uncle. It was kind of John Quen¬ 
tin. He knows how I hated my Uncle Bruno. L’his- 
toire est extremement interessante, depuis le com¬ 
mencement jusqu’a la fin.” 

“Don’t, Gartlia.” Jan was shocked at this free- 
spoken young woman. “You must not speak so. 
Why don’t you go and see if you can comfort your 
aunt a little? ” 

Gartha, in accordance with this suggestion, crept 
to the cabin door, and tried the lock. It would not 
open. 

“Who is there? ” called Alixe faintly. 

“ C’est moi, chere tante,” called Gartha, loud enough 
for a young commis voyageur who was going out to 
Cape Town to hear. “ Your own little Gartha. Can 
I do something for you, clierie? Something to soften 
this great and overwhelming esperience? ” 

The door was opened a little way. Gartha had her 
head over her shoulder to see if her listener had taken 
in her last words and their gentle purport. She had 
the great satisfaction to find that he was all eyes and 
probably all ears. She wished that Alixe had not 
responded quite so quickly as the tail of her eye 
showed her that she had. But her head was turned 
toward the attentive stranger, and there was time for 
one effective sentence. 

“Do not weep, dear aunt,” she said in her most 
heavenly tone, the corner of her eye still taking in the 
travelling salesman. “My dear uncle, ame blanche 
that he was, has gone to that land where we shall 
meet him, too, some day. He is looking down and 
watching over us now, and pobaly blessing us; and 
every tear we sheds makes his kind heart beat the 


428 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 

faster, every sigh we heaves is to him an embarrass 
des richesses. Spend your tears on the little ones 
that you have lost, but not on my sainted Uncle 
Bruno, the Comte de St. Aubin!” At these final 
words, the commis vovageur opened his eyes very 
wide; at which sign of interest Gartha could not re¬ 
sist adding: “Chere Duchesse di Brazzia, sans la 
religion nous serious pires que les barbares! ” and 
disappeared within the door. 

Alixe, whose face had been buried within the folds 
of her cloak, and who had heard nothing of Gartha’s 
play-acting, opened her arms to the child and held her 
close, so close that Gartha feared that she should 
smother. She managed to keep her eye on the win¬ 
dow, however, and was satisfied to see that the young 
man was gazing at the closed door through which she 
had passed, open-mouthed. 

From this time forth Valery could see that there 
was a great struggle going on in the mind of Alixe. 
She sat often lost in deep fits of abstraction. She 
did not speak when spoken to, and seemed to be 
planning a future with which no one could interfere. 
He chuckled quietly in silent communion with him¬ 
self. “She’s a widow now, sure enough. A widow 
firm and fast. She has never been a wife. She is 
thinking of Quentin. I can see that she wants to 
hasten home. There must be something in all this. 
When I mention his name she winces and shivers, 
and looks appealingly at me, perfectly oblivious all 
the time of what she is doing.” 


xlvii. 


Quentin accepted Lady Eldon’s invitation, and went 
down to tlie Abbey during the last days of November. 
Paris was bright and sunny, but the country was bare 
and chill. There was no one to meet him at the little 
station, and he walked over the road to the Abbey as 
he had done before. The scene was changed past be¬ 
lief. The autumn rains had wetted the ground, the 
fields were bare and brown, the trees were almost 
stripped of foliage, and there were masses of dingy, 
yellow leaves in the gutters by the roadside. As he 
strode onward he could not believe it the same road 
over which a little more than a year ago he had passed, 
a stranger, and found something awaiting him of which 
he had not dreamed. He cast a glance upward to¬ 
ward the hill. The great sentinels of the forest stood 
as of old, bare and sturdy. They waved their ragged 
branches in the gusts of wind that swept through 
them, and seemed to call down the slope: “ Go back! 
Go back:! She is not here! She is not here! ” His 
glance scanned the distant hilltop, and he thought 
that he could single out the very tree which he had 
climbed to scan the country the first morning after 
his arrival at the Abbey, and he made up his mind 
that during this visit he would go and look again 
upon the white stone which bore the name of Allaire, 
because she was the sister of Alixe, and because Alixe 
had placed it in the glade. He wondered quizzically 


430 THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 

if Madame occupied her time now in “ digging the 
moss out of the title,” as Valery had said. He deter¬ 
mined to mount the path and see for himself on some 
early day. Arrived at the gate, it was opened by a 
new, stiff English butler, whom Quentin followed 
across the terrace. He glanced sidewise in the direc¬ 
tion of the chalet; but there was no one sitting at the 
long table, there were no lights, no gay voices. A 
slight flurry of snow had appeared, and was whirling 
around his head. The salon doors were closed. The 
butler ushered him into a little room upon the left, 
and there he waited in the dark until the man could 
light a lamp and announce his arrival. There was 
a faint glow from the fireplace, where a log was 
smouldering, and Quentin stood with his feet upon 
the fender until the butler came with a lamp, and 
told him that he would announce his coming to Lady 
Eldon. It was not long before there was a gentle 
rustling of skirts, and my lady came in. Madame 
was rather changed, grown a little stouter and a 
little redder in the face, and a great deal more effu¬ 
sive. 

She came bustling toward him, and held out her 
hands across a chasm of forgetfulness. “ You dear! ” 
she said, taking Quentin’s own. His thoughts in¬ 
stantly reverted to the first evening in the chalet, and 
he laughingly said: 

“ Mamasha, Mamasha, how do you do? How are 
you all, Mamasha? ” shaking her hands up and down 
the while, embarrassed somewhat now as then. 

"You are a godsend,” said my lady, "a perfect 
godsend! Eldon has a crick in his back and groans 
about no French house being fit for a human being 
to live in. It is a draughty place in winter-” 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 431 


"It isn’t winter yet,” said Quentin. 

" It lias been abnormally cold. We can liardlv keep 
warm. I was never so cold at the Towers when I stayed 
there. It is true, as Eldon says, they don’t know any¬ 
thing over here about being comfortable; but, of course, 
no one ever expected to stay here in winter. Come, 
sit down here. Sellers, some more wood. Do make 
it warm. See that Mr. Quentin’s things are put in 
the chalet, and tell Pierre Monrouge to keep his fire 
going. Take plenty of wood over there.” 

“Pierre Monrouge takes no orders from me, my 
lady,” said Sellers, bowing stiffly. 

" Oh dear, oh dear! Nothing but quarrelling! Send 
Pierre Monrouge here, and I will tell him myself. I 
might have known that French and English servants 
would never agree. Les domestiques sont des gens 
fatigants. You spoke of-” 

“ The chalet? ” said Quentin in surprise. “ I thought 
that the chalet was-” 

“ Well, so it was,” answered Lady Eldon, “but 
Alixe had it repaired; and though the rooms on Bru¬ 
no’s side are somewhat changed, yours are just as 
they were. How strange it all seems! ” 

Lady Eldon mused with her elbow on her knee, her 
cheek on her hand; upon her fingers there were some 
very magnificent rings, which flashed in the lamp¬ 
light. Lord Eldon had indeed “put butter on her 
paws.” 

“You see I wear it always,” said she, sentiment¬ 
ally, holding out the other hand toward Quentin, and 
bringing into view a very handsome bracelet, set with 
brilliant stones. “ For a long time I did not know 
who sent it. One of my loveliest presents. You 
must have spent a fortune for it.” 


432 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 

“lean never repay you,” said Quentin earnestly, 
“for what you have done for me.” 

Madame, as Quentin must still call her in his mind, 
laid her hand in his and pressed it tenderly. Yalery 
had called her a cat, a little cat. She was greedy; 
she might have been arrested for forgery; she had 
always repudiated every one who stood in her way; 
but yet she was a pleasant little cat, a soft, purring 
little cat, and she purred contentedly as she sat there 
with Quentin in the blaze of the renovated fire. 

“ I had a dreadful time to gee people to come here,” 
she confided to Quentin. “The Baroness wouldn’t 
have come a step if she hadn’t been so poor. That 
wretched little man has dissipated almost everything, 
himself first and foremost. He still sits in front of 
Maxim’s—inside, I suppose, now, if the weather is as 
cold as it is here, and drinks his absinthe and gallops 
onward down the hill to paresis, while the poor little 
Baroness hasn’t a rag to her back, or wouldn’t have, 
if I hadn’t given her a bundle of clothes that Alixe 
left behind. It is really funny to see her in them. 
She is magnificent.” 

So Quentin thought, an hour later, when, having 
dressed for dinner, he found himself in the little 
breakfast-room of a year ago. The dining-room was 
too large and cold, Lady Eldon had said. They 
should all have lumbago as badly as Eldon. There 
was a goodly company assembled at the table, des¬ 
pite Madame’s assurance that it had been difficult to 
get any one to come. Mademoiselle was there, her 
peculiarities not lessened with time; and Quentin 
was thankful to find that he had been placed on 
Madame’s right, three seats from the poor little 
Weasel. M. le Maurier, whom he had met there be- 


THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 433 


fore, was on Lady Eldon’s left. “All, Napoleon 
Third! ” some one had exclaimed when they first saw 
him. Miss Spencer was at the Abbey, and welcomed 
Quentin with effusion. The Baroness, and Lady 
Barnes, and Miss Jenkins were further down the 
table, as well as some men whom Quentin had a 
slight recollection of having seen on his first visit; 
but the Count St. Aubin and the Alsatian were gone. 
There was no Gartha, no Yalery, and, what summed 
up in two words all Quentin’s misery, no Alixe. 
How changed everything was! Lord Eldon did not 
come down. Dinner was served by the pompous but¬ 
ler and two English footmen, Charles standing at the 
door looking gloomily in, and refusing to go to the 
kitchen for a single dish. He had been superseded; 
now let them see how they could get on by them¬ 
selves. 

There was a long wait between the soup and the fish, 
and finally the message was brought in that there was 
no fish. My lady, mistress of herself though china 
fall, carried on her conversation with M. le Mau- 
rier and Quentin by turns, laying her* hands on one 
of theirs alternately, with the exclamation, “You 
dear! ” But there were two very bright spots on her 
cheeks which art had not placed there, and Quentin 
could see in imagination a. corps of domestics leaving 
by train on the following morning. He heard with 
much amusement that Pierre Monrouge, who carried 
the orders to market, had understood Sellers to say 
that my lady wished some “ poison ”; that his sister, 
Marie Monrouge, now travelling with the Duchess, 
had left her little dictionnaire behind; that he had 
consulted it, and had found that “ poison ” stood for 
“ toxique, ” poison mortel. He thought that my lady 
28 


434 THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


liacl wished for something to poison the rats, which 
had come into the house during the cold weather. 
He had a large parcel of it in the cuisine, plenty for 
all the rats in the house, and Pierre Monrouge looked 
meaningly at the English butler. 

“ He knew perfectly well what I wanted, ” Madame 
confided to Quentin. “ They make me all the trouble 
they can, just because we brought those men from the 
Towers. The men themselves positively hate it. 
They consider it a broken-down old place compared 
with Eldon Towers, and so it is; they cannot speak 
the language, they are not accustomed to petty 
French ways, and there is a constant disturbance. 
They wilfully misunderstand me and each other. The 
wonder is that we get anything to eat at all.” 

Quentin laughed at Madame’s distress as she 
poured out her tale after dinner in the salon. 

“And now I must go and talk with Monsieur le 
Maurier. He is waiting for me,” she said. “ He only 
came for the evening, and as he came at my request, 
I must give him a little of my time.” 

“What can he have to say? ” said Quentin to him¬ 
self. This question was answered, almost as if he had 
spoken aloud, by Miss Spencer, who formerly had 
spent all her time in enlightening Quentin as to the 
mental attitude of every one at the Abbey. 

“Le Maurier has come to tell her all about Bruno,” 
she said in a low tone. “ You know he had suspected 
him for a long time, and when Mamasha thought that 
she was the bait, it was Bruno and Halle whom he 
was tracking. You have heard, I suppose, that he is 
an agent of the secret police.” 

“No, I didn’t know it,” said Quentin. “I thought 
he was the editor of a paper.” 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 435 


“I suppose a man can be both in France; at all 
events, a man is never what he pretends to be over 
here—or, for that matter, anywhere else. Did you 
ever see things go as they do now that Mamaslia is 
My Lady ? No one minds her now that Alixe is not 
here to make them; not one single word she says. 
The consequence is we sometimes go without poulet 
for breakfast, or cheese, or salad, as the case may be, 
or without fish, as to-night. Really, I cannot stand it. 
I am getting so run down that I shall have to go 
home to recuperate. I intended to ask you to go up 
the hill and see how forgetful Mamasha is becoming 
in her old age-” 

“I hadn’t noticed that Lady Eldon is becoming 
forgetful,” said Quentin loyally. 

“Wait till you see the tombstone. The title is en¬ 
tirely obscured by moss-” 

“She has another title now,” smiled Quentin. 
“ She cannot use two, and after all, Miss Spencer, 
we cannot nurse our griefs forever.” 

“ That has a double application. I think you are 
very sensible. Do you know, Mr. Quentin, that 
Alixe has fully decided upon a conventual life? ” 

“No, I don’t know,” said Quentin quickly. 

“No, you don’t know; but it is true. The Arch¬ 
bishop says that she has given her word; and when 
Alixe gives her word, it is fixed as the laws of the 
Medes. Do you ever hear from them? Don’t look so 
awfully down. There are as good fish in the sea as 
ever were caught, though we can’t get them for dinner!” 

“I have had one letter from Valery,” said Quentin, 
answering Miss Spencer’s question and ignoring her 
comments. “ But my young nephew is with them; he 
writes me semi-occasionally. ” 



436 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


“ When lie wants money, I suppose.” 

“Yes,” said Quentin. “I used to do the same.” 

“ The boy the father of the man, and all that sort 
of thing. Gracious, how cold it is! I feel as if one 
of Gartha’s revenants was passing behind my back. 
I wonder what Mamasha and le Maurier are talking 
about so long. I suppose you would like to say she 
will probably tell me if she wants me to know, only 
you are too polite.” 

“That might be said to convey the gist of my 
thoughts.” Quentin laughed and looked toward 
Lady Eldon. He saw that she laid her hand on the 
little man’s arm, probably with a “You dear!” and 
accompanied him to the door of the salon with a few 
last low words. As the great half of the door was 
opened, swift gusts of air blew in. 

“ Oh, dear! ” groaned Lady Barnes, “ why can’t that 
common little man go out the other way ? He can get 
through the dining-room just as well.” 

Le Maurier had paid Lady Eldon a very effusive 
farewell. 

“ That is what in the Land of the Free you call a 
put-up job,” said Miss Spencer. “He isn’t going 
home at alh There is no train to-night. I really 
wonder what all this pretence means! ” 

Here Mademoiselle struck a few notes on tho grand 
piano, shivered, squealed, withdrew her cold, red, lit¬ 
tle claws, then struck the keys again, and my lady’s 
sweet middle-aged voice, with a little strain in it, 
pealed forth in the mad song from “ Lucia.” Quentin 
was taken back in a flash to that evening a year ago, 
in the summer, when Alixe had forbidden the song to 
be sung in her presence. He thought again, as he 
had a hundred times, of the ruin, of his following her 


THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 437 


there, of what she had said, of what she had allowed 
•—that handclasp which was to last him through 
eternity—and in one of my lady’s most shrill rou¬ 
lades he crept out quietly and closed the door. 
The night was cold and blustery, but Quentin’s 
blood was young, and he ran down the stone steps, 
through the tunnel, which was now entwined only with 
branches denuded of leaves. He could see the sky 
overhead, the cold stars glinting between the inter¬ 
stices of the leafless growth, and the winter clouds 
skurrying across the darkness, but he ran on and 
entered the ruin. Here he was enclosed and de¬ 
fended from the blasts which blew over the garden 
and round the chateau. He sought the bent tree. 
The limb where she had sat was covered with a fine 
little layer of snow. He brushed it aside, and 
pressed his lips to the place where her hand had 
rested. A sound caused him to turn. Quentin for a 
moment was struck with a horror that was new to 
him. He did not believe in ghosts, in the common 
acceptation of the term, and yet for a moment he 
thought that he had penetrated the mystery of the 
Abbey. He turned to see dark forms, five of them, 
crossing the interior space of the ruin. From each 
hand there depended a light. The procession was dec¬ 
orous and quiet. Two of the men carried a some¬ 
thing between them. It seemed to be light in weight. 
The others walked two ahead and one behind. As 
the procession reached the centre space, the burden 
was rested upon one of the old stone seats, the seat 
near where Madame used to pour tea for her guests 
on midsummer afternoons. Quentin stood transfixed 
in the dark corner where he had entrenched himself, 
and waited. A low laugh broke the stillness of the 


438 THE ABCHBISHOP ANT) THE LADY 

lonely interior. It jarred upon liis nerves, it seemed 
to be out of place there. And then, in the light of the 
lantern, he saw a face that he knew; it was the face 
of le Maurier, who had bidden Lady Eldon good-niglit 
but a short time before. The five figures stamped 
their feet on the ground—they clapped their hands to 
their ears, but all was done with a due observance of 
the proprieties. “ Take him up again, mes gargons,” 
said the voice of le Maurier; “ we know at least, that he 
skulks no more about the earth, seeking whom he may 
kill. When you leave the Abbey, turn to the left. 
Go through the flower garden, the Couut St. Aubin’s 
rooms, my lady said. Extinguish your lanterns. 
Once outside, we shall have light enough.” The men 
filed out of the archway. Quentin saw that one of 
the lanterns had been left upon the ground. No 
sooner had the mysterious party disappeared than he 
went swiftly toward the lantern, took it up from the 
ground, blew out the light, and retreated to his 
former vantage point. He had barely regained his 
place when he heard swift footsteps. Some one en¬ 
tered the ruin. A match was scratched. The man 
was evidently looking for the lantern carelessly left 
behind. His search being unsuccessful, he turned 
back again. 

When the sound of footsteps had died away along 
the garden path, Quentin passed toward the outer 
opening through which le Maurier and his men had 
come, and when once well outside the wall, he lighted 
his lantern. Here he was screened from any view of 
the chalet or the chateau itself. Some unexplained 
suspicion led him at once to the passage which 
he remembered, the passage into which Gartha had 
r>enetraWl one day. Here at its mouth he found a 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 439 


disturbed state of affairs. Most of tlie entrance wall 
liad been knocked away, and now that tlie grass and 
summer growth had died down, he saw that the tun¬ 
nel was marked on the surface of the ground by a 
slight ridge. He climbed the terrace, and walked 
along this ridge. He stumbled and nearly fell into a 
hole, and started back just in time. This made him 
the more cautious, and it was as well, for he found 
that these excavations were to be seen every little 
way. At one about three hundred feet from the open¬ 
ing he discovered a very manifest disturbance of the 
earth. He lowered his lantern, and found an excava¬ 
tion deeper than the rest. 

Quentin set his lantern among the stubble, and 
lowered himself into the hole. His foot struck some¬ 
thing as it met the ground. The hole was large 
enough for him to stoop. This he did, and felt for 
and raised in his hand the thing against which his 
foot had struck. He brought it out to the light of 
the lantern, and examined it there. It was the san¬ 
dal of a priest, mildewed, and giving forth the odors 
of the charnel house. 


XLYIII. 


They had been travelling for a year, Yalery and 
Alixe, as ever good friends. Jan and Gartha were 
constantly falling out with each other, devoted at one 
moment, at the next silence marking their compan¬ 
ionship. 

These quarrels caused Yalery many hilarious mo¬ 
ments, and Alixe too smiled at times. Still she had 
taken on a very serious cast of countenance. At the 
first stopping place where such things were procur¬ 
able, she had deepened the mourning which she had 
worn for Yirginia Danielli to the most sombre crepe 
of widowhood, and, with the enveloping veil, she went 
about simply a personality among them, her thought 
and spirit far away. (( She’s only wearing that for 
propriety’s sake,” said Yalery to Gartha, to whom he 
unburdened his mind more than was proper. “ She 
will cheer up after a while and be like other people.” 

Once, at Cairo, where their travels had led them, 
when Yalery was buying some bright stuffs and amu¬ 
lets for Gartha, who, after each conflict between her¬ 
self and J&n, loved to array herself in them in the 
endeavor to redazzle him, Yalery brought to Alixe a 
strange Egyptian chain and threw it over her head, 

“Wear this, Alixe,” he said, “as a reminder of this 
trip of ours.” 

Alixe hastily removed the chain. 

“No, Yalery,” she said, “do not give me such 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 441 


things. Let me give it to Gartlia. Slie loves every¬ 
thing that is bright and pretty. As for me, I shall 
never wear anything but the deepest black forever 
more.” 

“What nonsense, Alixe! Why you are not yet 
twenty-two. Do you mean to tell me that you have 
finished with life? Bruno is gone past recall. Try 
to look upon the future differently. I had hoped 
that you were beginning to. You have a long life 
before you-” 

“A long life of expiation,” said Alixe solemnly. 

Valery gasped, “Expiation! What do you mean, 
Alixe? ” 

“What I say, Valery. Expiation! Expiation! 
Bruno took his life for me. I must expiate that until 
my dying breath. I have written to my dear Arch¬ 
bishop. I have told him that I am strong and well, 
and ready to take up my work in the sisterhood; to 
take the vows. In short, to do that which I intended 
to do when I came to the Abbey to nurse Gartha.” 

There was a howl from a dark corner of the room. 
Gartha had slipped in unobserved. 

“ You shall not! You shall not! Mon Dieu! you 
shall not,” raged and screamed Gartha. “I know all 
about why my Uncle Bruno killed himself. Juge pour 
vous-meme. I know the whole thing. You shall not 
leave me and go into a convent, not for forty dead 
Uncle Brunos. He-” 

“ Gartha! Stop! ” shouted Valery in a voice of 
thunder, but Gartha, though she had never heard this 
tone from her father before, was not to be hindered. 
Her words poured forth like a cloud-burst upon the 
mountains. 

“ He was ame damnee. I saw it in Mamasha’s letter 


442 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


to Valery. He did not kill liimself neither for you, 
neither for me. Ni l’un ni 1’autre. I was con-con¬ 
ceited to think he did. It was for neither you, 
neither me. It was-” 

“ Gartha! Stop! ” 

“ It was because he had blowed up the steamer with 
Virginia Danielli on board, and he knew it would all 
come out, and he was afraid to face-” 

“There! See what you have done!” said Valery. 
“ You have killed her! ” 

He stooped over the unconscious form of Alixe, 
which had fallen upon the floor. “ Call somebody 
quickly, if you can stop that confounded tongue of 
yours long enough to change its tune. Alixe! Alixe! 
Do you hear me? Gartha, call some one.” 

They travelled here and there for eight months 
more, Alixe the shadow of her former self, and then 
when nearly two years had passed since the death of 
St. Aubin, they turned their steps toward home. 

Jan MacDonald had been the weary recipient of 
long and constant epistles from his uncle; Gartha, of 
an occasional one. Jan, forgetful and unmindful of 
the uncle who was giving him an experience which is 
a rare one for a lad of his years, wrote but seldom. 

“ Another of Uncle Jack’s blowing ups,” said Jan to 
Gartha one day. “ He never worried over me so when 
I was in Scotland. I can’t see why he wants to know so 
much about me now. Just listen to this, will you? ” 

“Deak Jan: 

“ You never tell me anything about the kind friends 
with whom you are travelling. You say, ‘ I went to 
see the great piremid,’ ‘ I saw the Spynx ’ (mark the 
spelling), 4 1 rode a Donkey at cairo ’ (please remark 


THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 443 


the capitals), ‘ I went up to the second cataract in Mr. 
Valery’s daliabeya,’ but you never say with whom 
you went or how they are. I cannot understand how 
a young lad like you can be so conceited as to think 
that he is the only person in the world, and his move¬ 
ments the only ones to be chronicled. I am ashamed 
of you for the first time. Now sit down, and see if 
you can talk of any one but yourself, and tell me all 
that you do; who goes with you; the health of every 
one in the party, etc., and oblige your affectionate 

“Uncle Jack.” 

“Didn’t he give me particular rats?” said Jan. 

“ I should think you would understand the raison 
d’etre of that letter,” said Gartha, nose in air; “he 
wishes to hear about me, and you tell him only about 
yourself.” 

“ Do you think it’s that? ” Jan’s face clouded over. 

“You’d better sit right down and tell him all he 
wants to know, or he may cease your allowance,” re¬ 
turned Gartha. “ Voila! I will give you some of my 
stamped paper that came out from Paris. Now sit 
down and begin.” 

The result was as follows: 

“ Dere Uncle i am not very good at writin letters, 
and you neednt give me so much rats every time be¬ 
cause i havnt mentioned the person you are intrested 
in gartha is puffecly well gartha went to the piremids 
with me we both rode donkeys and Mr. valery said 
that gartha was the bulliest rider of the lot but i 
think that was all guff he gives us lots of larries 
gatha believes em i dont gartha went to the Nile in 
the darby, and when she got to the first catrac she 
cried and said she should never see John Quentin 
again and her farther said dont be a fool and when 
one of the arabins wanted to pull her upon the piry- 


444 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


mids she cried because she said he nerely pulled her 
arms out of her sokits and when he asked for a thing 
they call backshish out here and said she should 
never come down lessn she give it to him, her farther 
called him a durty brute and kicked him liaf way 
down the pirymids and she goes about like a eastern 
queen all bangles and sequins and amlets and she 
puts a thing over her head an looks through peep 
holes an she says shes goin to live in a hareem so you 
better come quick if you want to keep her from being 
bow stringed thats what they do to em wen they get 
tired of em but i dont see how any one could get tired 
of gartha she is such a funny little minks, and she 
says she wants to get home and so i think we will be 
comin soon now as this hole party seemes to be doiu 
just what gartha wants em to for she runs the shebang 
and no mistake so i expec well be in marsales gartha 
calls it marsay i dont see why in lessn a fortnit an to 
paris throo by daylite and with love from gartha so 
no more from your obedient nephew 

“John Quentin MacDonald. 

* I’ve told you all you want to know please dont 
stop my allowns I want to buy a bracelet for gartha.” 

“That’ll fetch him,” said Master John MacDonald 
to himself. 

Extract from a letter written by Lady Eldon to 
Hilary Yalery, Esq.: 

“And now for a piece of news, bona fide news. 
Our American friend is going to marry. I really 
cannot understand it. He seemed to care for—well, 
for different people, in the days gone by, but not for 
Ada Spencer. Now he is going to marry her, at 
Ada’s sister’s house in Hampshire. They have a lit¬ 
tle cottage there at Milton-on-Sea. There is nothing 
but a sort of downs and the Channel to look at. To 
be sure, there is golf, but I don’t think that will fill 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 445 


his cup, if Ada cannot. You know liow they used to 
quarrel [‘I don’t remember that Ada ever quarrelled 
with Quentin,’ mused Yalery; 4 1 thought she was 
rather fond of him.’] And how she abused him be¬ 
hind his back. But now she has taken him, and not 
too crooked a stick either. I should say rather that 
ifc was he who has been through the wood, and taken 
up with a crooked stick at last. She is older than 
lie, that I know for certain [‘ Yes, I think she is, ’ 
mused Yalery], and she is taller than he.” 

“ There’s where you’re out, Mamaslia,” said Yal¬ 
ery, “she is not taller than Quentin. Oh! hola, 
Alixe! I’ve got a letter from Mamasha. She gives 
me a queer piece of news.” 

“ What is it? ” asked Alixe faintly. 

“ Why, Quentin is going to be married. I wonder 
he has stayed single so long. I can’t understand his 
choice exactly. You don’t say anything, Alixe? 
What’s the matter with you? ” 

“ Why should I say anything? I am sure I hope 
they will both be happy. Who is the lady? ” 

“You’d never guess,” said Yalery; “the Weasel 
would be more likely. Ada Spencer, of all things! 
You know how he used to run from her, and now— 
well! words fail. Do you want to go home for the 
wedding, Alixe? ” 

“ Oh, no! ” said Alixe decidedly, “ I prefer to re¬ 
main abroad. Gartha wishes to go to India, and I 
do not think a year more of it will harm her.” 

On that day Alixe wrote a second long letter to the 
Archbishop. The final words of the letter were: “ I 
have firmly decided to enter the conventual life. This 
is my irrevocable determination* Although I shall 
remain here for a year longer, I shall, in that time, 


446 THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


strengthen my health and my convictions, and at the 
end of the year, you may expect me in Paris, to enter 
where you may counsel me to go. I am a poor, 
broken reed; but what is left of my life, and I am 
young, dear Archbishop, shall be devoted to a holy 
life and good works, if one so unworthy may be per¬ 
mitted to add that much to the glory of the Church.” 

A little later Hilary Yalery, Esq., received a char¬ 
acteristic letter from Lady Eldon. It ran: 

“My Dearest Yalery: 

“ I cannot see what you are all about that you do 
not write a line to me. I should think Gartha might 
write to her poor little Mamasha occasionally. 

“We have had a charming stay at the Abbey, but 
are going back to England next week. You must 
come to Eldon Towers when you return. Mr. Quen¬ 
tin and Ada Spencer have both been staying here. 
You will wish to come home, of course, for the mar¬ 
riage. I hear that it is to take place at Ada Spencer’s 
sister’s in June. Of course, entre nous, Alixe will not 
want the necklace, as I hear from the Archbishop that 
she has decided to enter the convent after all. Please, 
dear Yalery, do not mention it to any one. There is 
no reason why all that money should go to the com 
vent—heaven knows that if she gives them half her 
fortune it will be more than ample. She should give 
the other half to me, since Bruno cannot claim it. I 
am her mother, the one to whom she is indebted for 
all that she has in the world. [‘ Eaitli, I should 
think so!’ ejaculated Yalery.] Had it not been for 
me, she would to-day possess no fortune and no title. 
[‘Nor two husbands,’ interpolated Yalery, ‘one a 
dotard and a roue, and the other a malefactor. 
Clever Mamasha! Little cat!’] Please see to this, 
Yalery, for generous as Eldon is, it would be pleas¬ 
ant to have a little bank account of one’s own. 

“ Always your devoted 

“Annie Elpon.” 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 447 


When Alixe read this letter, she showed no sign of 
agitation. On that day there went away by express 
a tiny parcel addressed to Quentin. He received it a 
few days afterward in Paris. On the paper which 
enclosed the little box was written in a clear hand 
which Quentin did not know: 

“For your wife.” 

“ For your wife ”—Quentin repeated the words over 
and over again, but it was not until he opened the 
box, and saw his own ring lying within its envelop¬ 
ing cotton, that he knew from whom the parcel had 
come. 


XLIX. 


Quentin awoke one morning to the feeling that life 
was hopeless and dull in the extreme, and that the 
best thing that he could do with himself was to pack 
his trunk and start for America. He had, in fact, 
laid his finger on the electric button, when Jan’s 
round face came staring at him from the blank wall 
of his hotel bedroom. He must wait for the lad, of 
that there was no doubt. But where should he wait? 
Should he remain in Paris until he heard from Val¬ 
ery ? And when he did hear, should he go and fetch 
the child, or should he allow Valery either to send 
or bring him to Paris? The very thought of going to 
the Abbey made his heart thump like a sledge-ham¬ 
mer. A steamer sailed on the following day, the 
steamer upon which he preferred of all others to take 
passage. If he only knew where Valery was, he could 
telegraph him. How. strange of Valery not to keep 
him informed of his movements, and how outrageous 
of Jan. Jan had been most neglectful. His allow¬ 
ance had been almost doubled, with the hope that 
his gratitude would suggest prompt answers to his 
uncle’s letters, with the very slight hope added that 
he would throw in something regarding the welfare of 
the party. As Quentin dressed he worked himself 
into a fever of indignation with Valery and Jan, the 
latter in particular. 

He had rung for a telegraph blank, which he meant 


THE AECHBISHOP AND THE LADY 449 


to fill out and despatch to Madame at Eldon Towers, 
when a servant brought him a message. He tore it 
open, hoping, fearing; his feelings mixed; his fingers 
trembling. It was from Hilary Yalery, Esq., and 
ran thus: “We arrived at the Abbey last night. 
Come down and dine. ” 

Quentin never lost his belief in telepathy after this 
signal instance. He followed Yalery’s instructions 
to the letter, and late afternoon found him starting 
for Moncousis. When his bag was packed, he ran 
hurriedly down the stairs and out into the street, 
where the first person whom he saw, and against 
whom, in his nervous state, he ran, was the Arch¬ 
bishop. The two men had seen more or less of each 
other during the year that was past. As the Arch¬ 
bishop’s eye fell upon Quentin’s hurrying, nervous 
figure, his last letter from Alixe came at once to his 
mind. His Grace was feeling extremely cheerful as 
well as secure, for had not he, as the representative 
of the Church, outwitted Quentin, who stood for the 
world and the devil, each warring for the soul of 
Alixe? 

To be sure, the letter from Alixe had been received 
a long time ago; but in it she expressed it as her un¬ 
alterable determination that she should take up the 
conventual life upon her return to France. Although 
the Archbishop and Quentin had met occasionally, His 
Grace had never broached the subject which was of 
such vital interest to both. During one of the few 
visits which Quentin had paid him, the Archbishop 
had exclaimed: “Ah, Mr. Quentin, what a Catholic 
you would make! Why not come to us? Your char¬ 
acter is so earnest, so firm, so absolutely single of 
purpose, so devoted.” 

29 


450 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


Quentin knew well what had called forth this un¬ 
usual burst of expression from the prelate. He knew 
that His Grace recognized the fact that, although they 
were each silent with regard to Alixe, each could 
read the mind of the other as well as if their thoughts 
were printed in the blackest type and covered only by 
a clear pane of crystal, and that each mind was, for 
the time, and perhaps because of the special compan¬ 
ionship, filled with one and the same person. On 
this day the Archbishop could but note the expectant 
look in Quentin’s eyes. 

“You seem to be going somewhere, Mr. Quentin,” 
said His Grace, with his ever-gentle smile. “ To El¬ 
don Towers, perhaps. Give my warmest regards to 
them all. Is Miss Spencer there? I hear that she is 
going to marry that curious little person, Mr. Ware.” 

“I am going to the Abbey,” said Quentin bluntly. 
“They are at home, you know.” 

“ At home! They are at home ? But that is strange. 
I have heard nothing. When did they arrive? ” 

“ Yesterday. I have had a wire from Yalery this 
morning.” 

“At the Abbey? And she did not—I shall go with 
you,” said the Archbishop, breaking in upon his first 
sentence. 

“ For what? ” asked Quentin abruptly. 

“ And why should I not ask that same question of 
you, Mr. Quentin? I have known them all, down 
there, for many years, long before she was married 
to the Duca di Brazzia; but, of course, she did not 
live at the Abbey then. That goes without saying.” 

The Archbishop’s sentence sounded almost comic to 
Quentin. He had said simply “she,” but there was 
no need for either of them to particularize further. 


THE AKCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 451 


“Why should I not go?” added the Archbishop 
after a moment’s silence. 

“I asked why you were going,” repeated Quentin. 

“ And I answer that they are old friends of mine. 
Why should I not go? Old and dear friends. Is 
Lady Eldon there? ” 

“I know nothing—I have not seen her for some 
time. I have heard but once or twice since I stayed 
at Eldon Towers last autumn.” 

“ And what have you been doing since, Mr. Quen¬ 
tin?” 

Had Quentin answered truly, he would have said, 
“Eating my heart out,” but as one seldom gives an 
honest answer to any question, even the most trivial, 
he replied: “Oh! I have been travelling here and 
there, to Switzerland, to Aix, passing the time as 
best I could, until my nephew returns.” 

“And where is your nephew, if I may ask? ” 

“ He has been with—with—them, with Valery and 
—and his party. He is with them at the Abbey. I 
am going down to get the lad.” 

Quentin edged along past the Archbishop as if eager 
to get away. 

“And then?” 

“ I do not know. Take him home to America, per¬ 
haps. But I must be off, Your Grace, or I shall lose 
my train.” 

“ Your train? Going now to your train? ” 

“And why not? ” returned Quentin, quoting with a 
smile the Archbishop’s words of a moment ago. 

His Grace looked at Quentin earnestly. 

“Ah! Mr. Quentin,”he said, “what a Catholic you 
would have made. It is not too late. Come to me 
when you return. Let me have a talk with you—she, 


452 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


yon know—that idea is out of tlie question. She has 
promised me-” 

“ I know nothing, ” said Quentin, with a glimmer of 
hope in his look, that caused the Archbishop a shade 
of anxiety, “ but that I am going to the Abbey, and I 
must not lose my train. I will come to you when I 
return, but I really must be off. ” 

“I shall follow you,” called the Archbishop after 
the hurrying figure. “ I shall not be long behind you; 
make up your mind to that.” 

Quentin nodded and smiled over his shoulder. He 
could smile at the Archbishop, now that he had suc¬ 
ceeded in evading him. He almost ran toward the 
cab-stand. He threw his bag into the fiacre, threw 
himself in after it, and was whirled away to the sta¬ 
tion. By dint of repeated promises of pourboire, he 
just managed to pass through the gates of the station 
before they were closed. He made a very close con¬ 
nection all the way, and at the straggling little vil¬ 
lage of Moncousis he, this time, found a vehicle in 
waiting, and, springing in, was jolted along the road 
toward the Abbey. Antoine doubled back, under-ran 
the railway, and was soon on the way toward the 
great enclosure which Quentin had seen two years 
ago for the first time. The train was the same which 
had brought him to the Abbey on his first visit, and 
as then, the night was falling. Again he gazed upon 
the long, white, dusty ribbon of the road which 
stretched away in perspective; again he saw the fields, 
darkening wastes under a light, fading dimly. Ah! 
here was the hill. Antoine turned his horse to the 
left, and they were soon ascending it. To the right, 
again, they curved with jerk and jounce, and now 
stood out the great wall, flinging its barriers across 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 453 

the plain of little country gardens. But barrier 
though it was, it advanced to meet Quentin; it held 
out a welcoming hand to him, he felt, he hoped; and, 
as if in sympathy, the leaves upon the near hillside 
murmured and whispered, "She is here! She is 
here! ” 

Quentin, as he gazed upward at the moss-grown 
gray squares of stone, expected almost, while deem¬ 
ing it improbable, to see a little brown head peering 
down at him from over its tiled roof. And so it 
came about. It was all so natural, when Gartha’s 
voice, Gartha’s voice grown older and more assured, 
called, “Yalery, is that you?” that Quentin could 
have thought that time had flown backward, that it 
was the dead August of three years past, and that he 
was now approaching the Abbey for the first time. 
But ah, no! In that twilight August walk of three 
years ago he knew of no Alixe. Since that time, he 
felt as if he had known of nothing else. 

Quentin made no sign to Gartha. Through the un¬ 
certain dusk she saw only the black form within the 
station wagon. He heard her say, "I thought it 
might be Yalery or John Quentin,” and a boyish 
voice answered with frank lack of flattery: “Not he! 
Not Uncle Jack. He likes Paris too well to come 
down here the first thing.” 

A hundred yards further and Antoine had drawn 
up at the gate, and had rung the bell. Charles an¬ 
swered, as of old, with his ever polite “Bon jour, 
Monsieur,” and the gratuitous information that Mon¬ 
sieur Yalery had gone to Paris to meet Mr. Quentin, 
as he had received no reply to his message. Quentin 
remembered now that he had not replied. He had 
forgotten the proprieties in his anticipation. He 


454 THE ABCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 


entered upon the broad terrace. It seemed like a 
dream that he had dreamed before. He breathed the 
perfume of flowers. The salon door was open. 
There was no one about. 

Quentin was agitated beyond measure. He did not 
wait to speak further with Charles or Antoine, but 
walked hurriedly to the head of the old stone steps, 
and looked across the flower garden at the ragged 
edges of the ruin. The great trees thrust their heads 
out of the enclosure as of old; their branches waved 
in the night wind. Were they beckoning to him, or 
were they warning him away? The odors of the 
yellow roses, cinnamon pinks, and mignonette were 
abroad upon the air. How inexpressibly entrancing 
it all was! The hour, the place, the gently fading 
light lapsing into mysterious shadow, the scents of 
a summer dead and gone; they seemed to clasp him 
in an embrace from which he could not escape, and 
hold him close. He found himself murmuring, 
“Have there been other days than this?” and then 
there came a sudden pang at his heart. Suppose she 
had not come after all! 

Quentin descended the stairs with hurried steps 
and was at once within the tunnel of greenery, which 
had grown denser in the three years during which he 
had not seen it freshly leaved. Afar, he thought that 
he heard voices. He stopped and listened. 

Ah! They were only Gartha’s high tones, mingled 
with the boyish ones of Jan. Then there came to 
him upon the night air the sound of the lad’s whistle; 
but that was far down along the convent wall, the 
way by which he had come. 

Quentin approached the old door of the Abbey 
church. He was overcome with emotion. Could it 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LA0Y 455 


be that three whole years had passed since he had sat 
there with her for a few brief moments, and held her 
hands in his? Should he find her within? He could 
not think of it now without her. That other visit 
that he had paid in the late autumn to Madame had 
nothing to do with her. Her time was the time of the 
mignonette, the cinnamon pinks, the yellow roses. 

Quentin passed through the archway. Was the 
ruin empty? He stood for a moment thinking won¬ 
derful confused thoughts, fearing to go forward, un¬ 
willing to retreat. Was that a dim shape over there 
where the tall oaks grew? As he stood thus waiting, 
he heard again a low voice calling, “ Gartha, Gartha, 
where are you?” and again “Gartha, Gartha, where 
are you? ” and he knew now that at the first sound of 
that voice in that wonderful summer now past his 
soul had fallen before her. She was seated upon the 
bent limb from which he had brushed the snow on his 
last visit to the ruin. As she saw that some one ap¬ 
proached her out of the dusk, she arose with a faint 
exclamation, her tall figure outlined against the som¬ 
bre wall. Quentin advanced slowly, hesitatingly, as 
one approaches a shrine. When she saw who was 
coming toward her, she uttered a little cry of welcome, 
and took a step forward. He hastened his steps, and 
in a moment he was at her feet holding both her hands 
within his own. 


L. 


The good Archbishop was perplexed. hT As he walked 
away from Quentin he found himself wondering why 
the young man should have decided thus suddenly to 
go down to the Abbey. He felt quite certain that 
Quentin would not be able to change the mind of 
Alixe. She had written him, now some time ago, 
that she was prepared for a whole life of expiation, a 
long, long life. She was young, only twenty-two 
years old. If the Archbishop experienced a pang 
that so much beauty and youth and life should be 
shut away from the world forever, he quenched any 
such weakness for the sake of that Lord and Master 
whom he served, and had ever served whereinsoever 
he thought his duty lay. 

“I should have gone with him,” he murmured to 
himself as he proceeded toward his own house. “ It 
is true that I promised to see the sister who is dying 
at Ste. Marie, but this,—this—but—no! no! I cannot? 
go to night. I cannot break my promise. I will take 
the early train to-morrow. 

“Pack my .bag,” he said to his servant on entering 
the door. “ I must be away betimes in the morning.” 

The road from the station to Moncousis was wet, 
and the dew was hardly off the grass when the Arch¬ 
bishop arrived at the Abbey gate. He had passed a 
wakeful and a serious night. He had administered to 
the dying nun, soothed her pillow, given her absolu- 


THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 457 


tion, and with the eyes of faith had almost seen her 
glorified spirit vanish through those portals where 
his soon must follow; for the Archbishop was an old 
man now, and the blow which had felled him to the 
ground had left its trace upon his frame and nerves. 
Charles opened at His Grace’s ring. The visitor, with 
but a hurried, kindly nod, hastened across the terrace 
like one on some important errand bent. The salon 
door, which was always thrown wide on sunny sum¬ 
mer days, stood open as of old; but, as upon Quen¬ 
tin’s arrival, the great room held no occupant. The 
Archbishop, scenting danger, turned away, and, with 
a quick step for so old a man, descended the stone 
stairway, and entered the Abbey. 

They saw him as he entered, Quentin and Alixe. 
She ran to meet him, both arms outstretched. She 
fell upon his neck and kissed him as a daughter 
might have done. She was brimming over with new 
life and smiles. She was transfigured. There was a 
rose flush upon her cheek, which the Archbishop had 
never seen before. She had something of white thrown 
around her shoulders; about her throat was a tiny 
chain, and upon it hung a ring which the Archbishop 
remembered to have picked up from the floor of his 
library and restored to her. 

“My daughter,” said His Grace, “my dear, dear 
daughter! ” 

Her open expression of affection touched him deep¬ 
ly, and overcame him for the moment. Is it possible 
that he thought of something which might have been— 
a something which his unselfish life had made impos¬ 
sible—a something which, but for his self-abnega¬ 
tion, he too might have shared—of a filial affection 
which might have been his by right? 


458 THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE LADY 

“My daughter,” lie said again, and placed liis two 
withered hands upon her shoulders. His lips trem¬ 
bled. He looked uncertainly toward Quentin, who 
stood a few paces away, and then back at Alixe. He 
fixed her with his eye, looked squarely into the shin¬ 
ing depths of hers, and said, “ I have come to claim 
your promise”; but his voice faltered as he reached 
the end of his sentence, for he realized all in a mo¬ 
ment that he had lost. 

“Dear Archbishop!” said Alixe. She leaned 
against this lovable old man with a confidence which 
had no trace of fear in it, tears gathered in the bright¬ 
ness of her eyes, and rolled down over a face beam¬ 
ing with happy smiles. “Dear Archbishop”—she 
looked toward Quentin—“ that letter was written under 
a misapprehension.” 

“ Under a misapprehension, my child? You sure¬ 
ly have not forgotten what you wrote to me. You 
said, ‘ I am coming home to you, to the sweet peace 
of the conventual life. I am coming back to you, to 
take upon me the vows of the sisterhood. I am go¬ 
ing to leave the world, that is my irrevocable deter¬ 
mination—to leave the world forever. ’ ” 

“Ah! Your Grace,” said Alixe, her face still shin¬ 
ing with tears and smiles, “ dear old friend, I cannot 
leave the world. It is a lovely world. It is a beautiful 
world. I do not care to leave it.” She laid one hand 
upon his shoulder and stretched the other toward 
Quentin. 


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